


Dreaming of You

by mormoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Comforting, Dreams, Fantasizing, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Grief, M/M, Masturbating, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock's Violin, Suicidal Thoughts, Tea, cases, nightclubs, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormoriarty/pseuds/mormoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIP! There are some habits you never grow out of, and some memories you never forget. But how do you give up something you had for so long? How do you live alone, without your best friend by your side? How do you cope with the world telling you everything you knew was just a lie, just a deception? And when it actually does turn out to all be real, what do you do when there's a chance that it's just all a dream?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To die, to sleep—  
> No more—and by a sleep to say we end  
> The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks  
> That flesh is heir to. 'tis a consummation  
> Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep—  
> To sleep—perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub!  
> For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,  
> When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,  
> Must give us pause-  
> Hamlet (3.1.67-75.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some dreams were so real; he had trouble discerning them from reality. They were mostly fragmented memories, slices of life made into a movie behind John’s closed eyelids. Starring Sherlock, of course. John's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a very subtle way that John's dreams transition from reality, see if you can figure out the difference. (hint: look at the tenses)

 

 **The first month-** _July_

_  
_

_“And how are you adjusting to living alone, John_?” Ella’s warm voice asked him. But he didn’t answer, his mind already spinning with recent memories of solitary nights and how _everything_ reminded him of Sherlock. It had been a month since The Fall, and The Fall was how John thought of it, important and marked with capital letters. It was important because it was Sherlock, because he was his best friend.

Ella thought that the grief and being no longer needed to run around with Sherlock had made his psychosomatic limp come back. Of course, there was no pain in his right leg, because it was all in his head. And his heart.

Out of habit, he still made two cups of coffee every morning and two cups of tea every evening. On quiet nights, meaning nights without the exhilarated chases, without criminals, without cases, they would have sat on the couch and watch crap telly with those cups of tea. Without Sherlock here to keep him entertained with his deductions, crap telly seemed to get even worse, and John would just turn the volume down low and fall asleep on the sofa with his cup of tea. The other ones always grew cold on the coffee table, and John would let the bevy of mugs sit there until he ran out of cups to use. Sometimes he would read something funny off the internet and then turn back to tell Sherlock, who would've been bound to have a sarcastic comment for everything. But he wouldn’t be there to quirk up his lips, to give John that bit of laughter.

He didn’t ever feel hungry or tired- he’d apparently turned into Sherlock, who used to seem to be able to survive on nicotine patches and little to no sleep. Being a doctor, he knew it wasn’t healthy to not eat, so he made himself eat some ginger digestives every morning, even though they tasted like sawdust. John didn’t notice.

The flat felt cold without another person to bring colour to it, but John hadn’t the heart to move out. Though everything made him want to cry and scream. And cry and scream he did.

 

 **One month later-** _August_

_  
_

Two months and it was still the same, still going to his psychiatrist and it was no help. Nothing worked because no one believed him about Sherlock. About how he wasn’t a fraud. About how it was all real, not just a fairy tale.

Sometimes he tried to write down his thoughts, one of Ella’s suggestions. He found himself writing a letter, to Sherlock, about how much he missed him. The paper was wet when he finished, but John wasn’t surprised to find that his inked words had been blurred with teardrops.

Sherlock’s leather armchair still sat across from John’s upholstered one, and on some evenings, he lost himself staring at the empty chair, which still had an imprint of Sherlock’s backside in it, as if Sherlock had just gone out and would be back soon to sit in it again. Sherlock’s things sat in the flat, as if John was afraid to touch them, to move them, lest he disturb the last bits of Sherlock’s presence in 221B. The door to Sherlock’s bedroom was always closed, and remained so. John had no desire to remind himself, again and again, that his flatmate was gone. _Permanently gone_.

 

 **Two months later-** _October_

_  
_

Somehow without Sherlock here, John still managed to pay the rent. But with nothing else to occupy his time, he asked Sarah and then took his old fill-in position at the surgery. The work was always ordinary, nothing new or interesting. Mostly all stuff he had seen before- bad colds, fevers, allergies, nothing particularly severe. It was stress-free, and John hated it.

But it kept his mind off of Sherlock. Well, _mostly_ off Sherlock. This was what Ella had advised, that he do something to keep his thoughts elsewhere, so they weren’t on Sherlock. But Sherlock had come to visit him here at the surgery a couple of times, and John could imagine him here, with his swirling coat whipping around the corners of his countertops, pacing and thinking. Or sitting in the patient’s seat, tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for John to finish paperwork so they could visit St. Bart’s to examine yet another dead body.

One rainy night, as he was tidying some things off of the mantle, he came across their Cluedo board, with the knife still stuck in it. John had clutched it to his chest, and cried and laughed simultaneously while rain pounded endlessly against the windowpanes outside.

One time, he drank himself into a stupor, filling and refilling his glass with some bottle of wine he’d found hidden somewhere. It was horrible wine, but it had brought wonderful relief. And so he found himself on the floor, several hours later- his limbs achy and his head pounding from having passed out from all the alcohol. John threw the wineglass at the wall, and swore he would never do that again. He didn’t want to turn out like Harry, trying to drink all her troubles away.

One day, while walking to pick up some milk, John had passed a tall, dark-haired man in a long coat sitting on a bench. He stopped. But the stranger was too tan, too muscular, too… _not Sherlock_. John had tightened his grip on his cane and clenched his teeth and walked away. The stranger hadn’t noticed, and sat obliviously on the bench with a paper cup of coffee.

 

 **Four months later-** _February_

_  
_

John had finally gotten a bit of his appetite back, and had gone to dine at Angelo’s. It probably hadn’t been the best decision, since all John could think about was the first time he’d been here with Sherlock, and Angelo had assumed John was his date. Which wasn’t altogether that bad, but this time, Angelo just smiled sadly and gave him a candle for the table anyway. John sat there for an hour picking at his fettuccine alfredo before he realized he wasn’t hungry anymore. He paid the bill, the mostly uneaten pasta still on the table, and left, almost forgetting his cane again like the first time.

His sleep had been sort of sporadic, and he had occasional insomnia. He would sit and stare at the bullet-holed smiley face in the wall till the early hours of morning because he wasn’t tired. Or he was tired, and just couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t sleep without horridly vivid nightmares- nightmares of The Fall, of Sherlock’s last call. Or maybe they were good dreams, since they were the only times he could see Sherlock, still alive in his subconscious.

Some dreams were so real; he had trouble discerning them from reality. They were mostly fragmented memories, slices of life made into a movie behind John’s closed eyelids. Starring Sherlock, of course.

John is awake in the wee hours of morning- _2:35_ , it says on his bedside clock. God knows why he’s suddenly awake. He twists and turns, pulling the covers more tightly around himself. The room is stifling hot, though it’s the middle of February. “John,” he hears whispered softly. “John, did you miss me?”

The voice is recognizable, almost disconcertingly so, but he can’t place it in this hazy state of mind. A tall man is crouched next to the wall, the window open behind him. He must have come through the window, John thinks, now alarmed. He tries to get out of bed, but his limbs feel like they’re lined with lead. John makes a sound of protest as the man comes closer.

“Hush…It’s okay, John. It’s me,” the man soothes; his voice low and calm next to John’s ear. Streetlights from outside cast his silhouette upon the wall, and those brunet curls look familiar. He lets out a quiet gasp- for this man, this is _Sherlock_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been year since The Fall, and almost a year since John had first stood here. A year since Sherlock had walked off the roof of St. Bart’s, falling with his arms outstretched. And his fractured skull as he hit the pavement, blood splattered on his pale face, matted into his thick curls, and trickling down his lifeless form. John's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal thoughts.  
> 

_February_ (cont.)

John woke with a gasp, a real one this time. He hadn’t had dreams that he’d been able to recall so vividly for some time now. And this, this one had been so real that John swore he could still feel the warmth of Sherlock’s breath against his ear. It was 5am now, and he went downstairs to splash cold water on his face. John stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were red-rimmed and slightly swollen, like he’d been crying, and a pounding headache beat a steady tattoo against his skull. Good thing it was a Saturday, and he didn’t need to go to work today.

 

_March_

After living with Sherlock for two and a half years, he’d grown used to some habits. He’d finally stopped making two of everything in terms of food and drink, and the accustomed colourful cluster of mugs no longer sat on the coffee table. John felt a pang in his chest every time he saw the tea stains on worn wood of table. His heart hurt.

 

_May_

John had been shaving in the morning absentmindedly, and he nicked himself when his hands were unsteady. He gasped as scarlet blood trickled into the thick white of his shaving foam, and watched the red water swirl away as he washed it off his face. John couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d really seen blood. Not at the surgery, but after The Fall.

John thought of him, and as always, _him_ meant _Sherlock. Sherlock,_ his pale wrist without a beating pulse, _Sherlock,_ with crimson blood splattered across his face and on the sidewalk, _Sherlock,_ whom he needed here so badly. He needed him so badly to be here with him. And right then, John wished that ghosts were real, because at least then, Sherlock could haunt him.

It almost would have been the same.

_June_

He’d gone to visit Sherlock’s grave today. Seeing as it was the anniversary of his death, June the 16th. And John wondered if it should even be called that- “anniversary”, since, weren’t anniversaries supposed to be for good things?

It had been year since The Fall, and almost a year since John had first stood here. A year since Sherlock had walked off the roof of St. Bart’s, falling with his arms outstretched. And his fractured skull as he hit the pavement, blood splattered on his pale face, matted into his thick curls, and trickling down his lifeless form.

John stood there for a long while, as minutes, maybe hours even, ticked by. But he didn’t notice- his good leg bent beneath him while he carefully traced the engraved letters of Sherlock’s name with an outstretched finger. He’d slept here the first few weeks after The Fall, under the shelter of an oak tree located near to the gravestone. Today, he felt that he should make some sort of speech, but then he thought Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted that. And so he sat, beneath the oak, in a comfortable silence that reminded him of their evenings spent with tea in front of the telly. After a few minutes, he broke down and cried. He swore he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder at some point, but when he turned, there was only the wind.

When it began to get dark, he finally got up and limped away to find the Thai place he and Sherlock had always ordered takeaway from. It was raining, a warm summer storm, and he hailed a cab with a massive headache that had come out of nowhere. He brought home a Styrofoam container of chicken Pad Thai and then picked at it with a plastic fork till he’d poked holes in the Styrofoam. John massaged his temples in efforts to get rid of his throbbing headache, to no avail.

Then John couldn’t sleep and so he’d been tiding up the desk in his room, when he’d come across his gun, which still had sat in the drawer as it had since The Fall. He palmed the weight of it, remembering the familiar feel of the gun in his left hand. His fingers twitched to pull the trigger, though he knew there would be no coming back since it was a loaded gun.

These things he had never told Ella about- how much it _hurt_ that the world would never know Sherlock Holmes as John had known him, how no one believed there was a Jim Moriarty, and just how _fucking_ much he missed Sherlock. Because after a while, when people keep telling you the same thing over and over, who are you to believe? The world, or your “supposed” best-friend-turned-fraud?

He set down the gun. Sherlock would have wanted him to carry on. John sighed, and padded downstairs for a dose of headache medicine and sleep pills. He fell into bed dejectedly, but in his drugged state from the pills, forgot to turn off his lamp.

“John, I’m here for you,” a man’s voice calls. John opens his eyes, and he’s in his bedroom, the walls dimly lit by his still-on table lamp. It’s Sherlock, and John tries to reach for him, to touch him, to see if he’s real, but once again, he can’t move. Sherlock looks the same, if a tad skinnier and a bit tanner. His hair needs a cut and he’s actually growing a bit of a beard. He’s skinny like when they first met, before John had made him eat more and use less nicotine patches. His cheekbones are sharp as ever, and John is kidding himself if he says his heart doesn’t ache. John tries to speak, but his tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth, just like the rest of his body. But he manages to get out a feeble “S-Sherlock.”

He silently curses himself for stuttering, but lets it go as Sherlock comes near to sit on the edge of his bed. “John,” he replies, surprising John when he leans close to brush hair off of John’s forehead. “I miss you.”

 

John woke up with a still-pounding head, and his fingers trembled as he reached for the glass of water he kept on the bedside table. His pillow was wet.

 

_July_

God, he was getting old. Today was his birthday, and he was pleasantly surprised when his mobile went off at the surgery. It was Mike, Mike Stamford, whom he decided he really should get back in touch with. Mike had invited him out to lunch, as he had remembered it was John’s birthday. So he took his lunch break from the clinic and agreed to meet Mike outside some Indian restaurant.

“John, it’s been far too long.” The corners of Mike’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and held his hand out.

“Yeah. Good to see you, Mike.” And they shook hands and kind of awkwardly patted each other on the back, the way men did when they hugged. They went inside the restaurant, which was decorated cozily in warm reds and golds and has the faint smell of spices and incense in the air. Mike and John were ushered to a booth in the far corner, which was the most private, as diners were slowly trickling in for a bite during their lunch break.

The waitress- two kids, recently divorced- handed them two menus. John tried to make conversation, and started off with: “Have you been here before?”

“Oh yes, you know me, John. I like food a bit too much,” and they laughed together. “The Rogan Josh is quite good here, if you can handle the chilies.”

John looked down at his menu to find the dish description for Rogan Josh. The image pictured seemed quite tantalizing, and John was genuinely hungry today. The waitress came back with a small basket of naan bread. He took Mike’s suggestion and when the waitress asked him, he ordered the Rogan Josh. Mike got a Chicken Tikka Masala and then fell silent.

This was the good thing about Mike, Mike knew him, and could easily spend a lunch in silence, if that was what John wanted. But John needed human companionship on a day like today, and so he was genuine in his curiosity when he asked: “How was the teaching at Bart’s this year?” They really hadn’t caught up for quite a long while and so Mike had plenty to talk about while John tried to eat and listen.

Lunch ended well with good food and conversation, and they made plans to meet up for drinks next week. “It was nice seeing you again, John,” Mike smiled and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“You too, Mike.” And John spoke the truth. Mike was the first one whom he had really talked to after--

_After The Fall._

Oh God. It hadn’t occurred to John that Mike had been the one, the one who’d first introduced him to Sherlock. Three and a half years ago. Memories flashed before his eyes in seconds- outside of Criterion, meeting Mike on a park bench, coffee in a cardboard cup, Sherlock’s calculating gaze as he limped through the lab door, and his first question; _“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

He blinked and fragments of words and thoughts faded away. Everything was gone now.

John bit his lip, and nodded at Mike. “See you around.” He tries to smile.

“Happy Birthday, John.”

\-------

That night he went home, tired after a day at the surgery. John made a cup of tea as always and settled into his armchair. _MasterChef_ was on, and it was challenge night.

\-------

He hears footsteps on the stairs up to the flat, and the front door creaks open. John’s eyes flutter open and in an instant, he’s awake. The still-on TV bathes a shadowed man in a bluish glow, and it’s Sherlock, here, right now. John closes his eyes again, and stifles a gasp while feigning sleep. He tries to move. But he can’t move, save to open his eyelids. John’s tucked his feet underneath himself in his sleep, and Sherlock comes close to drape a blanket over his legs even though it is quite warm in the flat as it is July. “Happy Birthday, John,” Sherlock whispers, and the lights on him flicker as an advert comes onto the screen of the telly. _“_ I know you can hear me, John,” he says, and John opens his eyes.

Waking up, John found himself with a warm cup of tea on the side-table next to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Watson's birthday is on 7 July.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream John laughed, but real John choked back a sob. He had loved those grins, rare as they came, usually only the moment Sherlock had finally solved a big case, finished putting together the complicated puzzle of seemingly unrelated facts, or found the culprit of some gruesome crime from the tangled web of suspects. John's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary Morstan makes her first appearance in this chapter. She is a character by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (eventually John's wife, in his books), but here, she is a part-time art teacher.

_August_

It had gotten worse. John’s headaches had been pounding away at his sanity, and at work, he constantly had to tamp down on the urge to snap at people when they asked, very nicely, of course: “Are you alright?” He was not “alright”, as far as he could tell, and he’d been popping meds like candy, only at home, though. They did nothing to lessen the pain, nothing to quiet the thrum of blood in his ears, nothing to stop the intermittent tremor in his left hand that had come back. It was a miracle that he could still work, but the mostly routine work took his mind off the throb that persisted through most of his days. His work at the surgery was varied, but never something that he hadn’t seen before. Severe allergies, a chronic nosebleed, some checkups, a pregnant woman looking for advice, colds. Once or twice, he’d had to administer a prostate exam. Very strange experience, but once again; nothing John hadn’t seen as an army doctor.

Today was Wednesday. He would get off work at 6, and his appointment with Ella was at 7:30. Enough time in between to go home with a takeout. _Chinese_ , he thought, calling ahead to place his order.

His headache finally abated as he stood at the counter of their old haunt, waiting for his boxes of takeout. The Chinese place they used to frequent after late cases (since it was open almost 24 hours) was done up in the traditional red and gold, and then something that Sherlock had told him once popped into his head. _“White is the colour of ghosts,”_ for traditional Chinese colours must have had something to do with one case or another. His beef chow mein (egg noodles) and walnut shrimp arrived, a big paper bag for him to carry home. John paid, and then walked home amidst strangers, listening to the muted noise of people on mobiles and cabbies honking, and the smell of noodles wafted from the containers in his arms.

He sat at the kitchen table to eat after taking off his jacket and shoes. The wooden table looked strangely (and sadly) empty without the glass beakers, Bunsen burner, scattered papers, or various body parts on it, but the delicious smells of Chinese food cheered John up a bit. He unpacked the containers, planning to eat the food straight and un-wrapped the disposable wooden chopsticks. 

\-------

“How are you, John?” Ella’s voice was warm and steady, her chocolate brown eyes crinkling in the corners as she smiled at him.

“A bit not good, actually,” he admitted as he massaged his temple. His headache had come back.

“Not good? What’s wrong, John? Headaches again?”

“Yes, but it’s been worse recently…” John trailed off.

“Are you taking medication?”

“Just standard meds like aspirin. But it’s not quite doing the trick.” John sipped at the cup of tea Ella had put out for him.

“Have you been having dreams again, John?” John noticed she was doing that thing again. That thing where when she was worried about him, she used his name a lot. He sighed.

“Not ones that I can remember afterwards. They just seem to float away when I wake up,” he shrugged.

“That is normal with most dreams,” she nodded, scribbling something on her pad of paper. Blue biro on a yellow lined legal pad, like always.

_September_

It was September. _No more Ella._ John couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or a bad thing, but all he knew now was that his Wednesday nights were completely free. Not that he was going to use them to try to pick up women, though not for his lack of trying. Probably Wednesday nights would just turn into “crap telly and takeout” nights, as the rest of John’s week usually went.

That was until John saw an ad on the street- one of those “rip a tab with the phone number on it off” ads- for adult art classes. He decided to give it a go, since what else did he have to occupy his nights? They’d meet on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, at some community center at 7pm.

He looked at the paper tab he’d just ripped off. The green copy paper lay slightly wrinkled in his hand, and John slipped it into his pocket, making a spur of the moment decision to walk the long way home instead of hailing a cab.

The crisp autumn air whistled through the leaves of sidewalk trees, but John’s Haversack coat kept him warm. Streetlights flickered as he turned a corner. He had enough food to actually cook tonight, and was looking forward to making a simple chicken and broccoli linguine. Maybe he’d invite Mrs. Hudson down to enjoy the meal with him.

\-------

A couple days later, he’d gone ahead and called the number, the green slip of paper still sitting next to the land-line. The teacher’s name was Mary Morstan, and she sounded quite nice over the phone, chatting a bit with John after giving him the necessary information. She specified what kind of sketchbook John should buy, and said she would be providing the other mediums, but he (and the other students) were free to purchase their own supplies, if they wanted.

John had gone out, to some little art supply store he’d never heard of before (Google really was a great invention), and had gotten a sketchpad and some sketching pencils. And of course, a bunch of those big, grey knead-able art erasers, for he was bound to make lots of mistakes- and corrections.

He had no idea what to expect for this class, since the last time John had taken mandatory art classes was way back when in second form. _When he was thirteen._

John wasn’t all that bad of an artist, and as a doctor, his understanding of the human body helped with drawing people and the human figure. But with all his free time, why not become even better? This was his logic for signing up for art classes out of the blue.

The first thing John decided to draw- before class, for practice, since he didn’t want to show up totally inexperienced, was a still-life that consisted of his coffee mug sitting on the computer table next to his laptop. His shading needed work, he decided, but his contour lines were good. He drew a picture of Sherlock’s armchair next, numbly imagining him perched atop it thinking, as John cross-hatched the shadows underneath.

After the skull, the bullet-holed smiley face, and his own hand, he couldn’t resist trying to draw Sherlock from memory. John thought Sherlock was the one he knew the best from memory and hopefully, he wouldn’t fuck up his picture too badly.

Long, wiry muscles and slender, elegant limbs sprouted from the tip of the pencil held loosely in John’s left hand and curved into Sherlock’s body- hunched over, with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled familiarly beneath his chin in his “thinking position”. John drew in that lovely black greatcoat of his, swooping the line of the collar and his suit jacket lapels, and adding the cushions of the sofa behind him. The shirt buttons pulled tight and practically gaped in places as they had in real life, and John added shadows to his high cheekbones and milky pale neck. Sherlock’s eyes seemed to twinkle and follow him in the lamplight of John’s bedroom, and John erased all the stray marking lines after touching up the Cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s lips. He was struck with a pang in his chest as he realized that, while this drawing _obviously_ wasn’t the best, he’d captured Sherlock- at least the one in his mind- perfectly.

 _“Think, John!”_ John could almost hear Sherlock snapping at him like a daydream playing behind his closed eyelids, and see him ignoring the cup of tea John had probably placed in front of him, in lieu of peeling another nicotine patch from its wrapper to place on his right forearm. Patch count: 2.

 His skin would have been sallower than usual, as it always was during the big cases (when he didn’t eat _at all_ ). And then Dream Sherlock- more like Daydream Sherlock- turned to him and smiled brightly; others may have called it manically. Dream John laughed, but real John choked back a sob. He had loved those grins, rare as they came, usually only the moment Sherlock had finally solved a big case, finished putting together the complicated puzzle of seemingly unrelated facts, or found the culprit of some gruesome crime from the tangled web of suspects. When Sherlock’s face lit up like that, it was akin to the unbridled joy a kid in a candy store possessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dream-cast for Mary Morstan is Billie Piper, with curly hair like this: http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-942EE3Dt05w/TdNydbCEV8I/AAAAAAAACmI/WwkPBiNgLc4/s1600/billie-piper-secret-diary.jpg


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sweet dreams, John. I’ll see you soon,” and he is gone, turning and disappearing into the murky depths of John’s subconscious. Don’t go, he tries to say. But he loses him to the shadows, like always. John's POV.

_October_

_October_

It had been months since he’d last stood here. In front of his gravestone. Memories, both good and bad, were too painful and kept him from visiting every weekend.

The grass around the granite was neatly trimmed, and it brushed John’s knuckles as he laid down a single yellow rose with a red tip. He felt the need to say something, because the silence was stifling though the brisk fall air was anything but. “I miss you”, “I need you”, he meant to say, but his mouth formed “I love you,” and it took him half a second to hear his own voice and realize that he hadn’t said it aloud. He choked a bit, his clumsy-feeling tongue foreign in his mouth. John had chosen the rose randomly, but now he realized the meaning fit well. “Where are you?” His voice was heavy and loud even though he whispered in the silence.

John closed his eyes, just standing at the grave while letting the now-acknowledged feeling wash over him. He leaned onto his cane heavily, weight distributed unevenly to his right side, and he sighed. He cleared his throat, feeling awkward, even though he wasn’t really talking to anyone. _Not really._

“Um, I’ll just leave it at that,” and with a silent goodbye, he limped away, thoughts swirling around in his brain.

He grabbed a coffee at some French café, where it was quite overpriced, but he didn’t care. _Not today._ He swirled in two sugar packets, before remembering that he usually took it black. John’s throat went dry when he realized that he’d accidentally made coffee the way Sherlock liked it. He’d always made the coffee and tea for the both of them, and he’d thought he would have gotten out of the habit after over a year. He thought about tossing it and buying a cheap coffee from some petrol station, but this was too expensive to just toss in the rubbish bin. John took a sip and nearly scalded the roof of his mouth swallowing the strangely sweet but bitter liquid.

They used to visit this café together, Sherlock and him. Sherlock had first shown him here and then John tried to drag him here most mornings they weren’t chasing criminals, just to get him out of the flat. They had laughed over the waiters’ blatantly fake and snooty-sounding French accents and names, and Sherlock would’ve woven their life stories together from the hairs of their right eyebrow or the type of mud on the instep of their shows, like he always used to do.

He could imagine him here, sitting across from him, pulling off the gloves he wore, finger by finger. Then he would wrap those long fingers around his own coffee cup and smile for a moment at John, a fleeting curl of his lips, as he brought the cup up to take a sip. John would always smile back.

It was early Saturday morning and he listened to the sound of people typing away on laptops with the café’s free Wi-Fi. John flagged down the waiter; Jacques, this one was “named”, and ordered two chocolate éclairs to go. One would probably go to Mrs. Hudson.

A few minutes later, Jacques comes back with a cute little box and John turned to pull his jacket off from the back of his chair, His table was right next to the window, and a familiar-looking man jogged by on the busy sidewalk as John headed towards the door.

“Au revoir!” Jacques or Michel or Brigitte called as the bell hanging in the doorway dinged.

\-------

John found that sometimes the smell of graphite from pencil shavings and fresh paper un-torn in his sketchbook kept him relaxed and kept his headaches at bay. So he’d been going early to his art classes. Getting there before June, Greta, Myles, Oliver, and Gareth could interrupt his little conversations with Mary.

While John couldn’t read people as well, that is _definitely_ not as well as Sherlock, he could still assume most of the general details of people he met. June was a very young mother of one; probably a teenage pregnancy, who said that these art classes were the only way to get out of the house and stay sane- John felt the same way, since work didn’t count. Greta spoke limited English; she was natively Polish, though her name had Greek roots, but the language of art required no words. Myles and Oliver came together; in their late twenties and recently married, and John envied the easiness of their simple acts of affection- like their intertwined fingers, complete with rings, as they walked out the door, saying their goodbyes. Gareth was very quiet, probably a little older than John, and was very self-conscious of his talent at still-life sketches, though they were usually quite good.

 

And John had to admit that he fancied Mary. A little bit. Okay, more than a little bit. She was quite a bit younger than him, thought, but the way she smiled always made John smile back. He hadn’t shown her his drawing, the one of Sherlock, until his tenth class, which was today.

She smiled at him and then asked: “Who is this, John?”

John’s throat suddenly felt dry. “He’s…my flatmate,” he said quietly. No use in telling her that he was dead.

“He’s quite…dishy,” she whispered, in a tone that was like it was quite scandalous. John let out a nervous laugh. He agreed. At least she hadn’t recognized him. She also hadn’t recognized John from anywhere either, when they first met.

He supposed that after over a year, most people had forgotten about “the world’s only consulting detective” and his blogger, and eventually, even the “Suicide of Fake Genius” headline in the papers. Not that John had. John would never, ever forget about Sherlock.

\-------

That night, after art, he’d dozed off in his armchair nursing a cup of tea, regular black, but for some reason, John had decided to put sugar in it, though he used to only take it with milk- like most English people do- but milk had been hard to come by in the field when he had been an army doctor, so he took it with just sugar, out of habit. The host of whatever he was watching- most likely re-runs of Top Gear, if that was still playing- went on and on, chatting with some guest-star from Doctor Who, which had sounded vaguely interesting to John, but his eyelids felt heavy and he was soon nodding off.

 

He dreams of lots of things: Mary’s face appears once or twice, smiling crookedly as she tucks a blonde curl behind her ear, but what features most predominately is his sketch of Sherlock. He had kept it just a graphite pencil sketch, not adding colour, for fear of screwing it up, but in this hazy state of dreaming, his drawn Sherlock is bountiful with colour, beautifully realistic, and dripping vibrancy till he comes alive off the page. John watches as his Sherlock gets up and takes off his coat, placing it over--- wait.

John has been drawn here, too, and lies sleeping in the exact position that he fell asleep in. John observes himself peacefully slumbering, breathing deeply and evenly, and Dream John sighs almost gratefully when Sherlock tugs his own coat to cover his legs and lap as a sort of blanket. This all plays out almost like a drawn cartoon, until Sherlock seems to look straight at him (how this is possible, John has no idea, since he’s kind of looking up the scene with an out-of-body type experience) and speak right next to his ear. “Sweet dreams, John. I’ll see you soon,” and he is gone, turning and disappearing into the murky depths of John’s subconscious.

 _Don’t go_ , he tries to say. But he loses him to the shadows, like always.

 

He woke with a blanket draped over him, not remember if he had pulled it around himself, or if his dream was real.

Yeah, right.

\-------

Two weeks passed and now they were using watercolours to paint people and things. Gareth’s seemed to come out the best, though he always ducked behind his easel and blushed if he received any compliments. They all had massive potential, Mary kept telling them, and she’d flit around the room handing out tips and praise like candies. They’d done self-portraits a couple of times, some pencil, some charcoal, and John had discovered that he didn’t know his face half as well as he knew Sherlock’s, though it still turned out quite good according to Mary and surprisingly, the rest of the class.

But he decided to paint Sherlock again, and he hoped the other didn’t think him weird, or obsessed, because he did draw Sherlock an awful lot. John loved the feeling of getting lost, getting caught up in his own art. Hours could tick by and he’d be oblivious, adding in shadows or finishing brushstrokes until it was perfect. Expectedly, he lost track of time most easily while sketching/colouring/painting Sherlock.

Sherlock almost always came to life easily beneath his pencil, and this time, John’s brush painted him more alive and more beautiful than ever before. Nearly black curls stood out against very pale, almost starkly white skin, and his eyes like moonstones and the ocean, iridescent and ever-changing like the waves, blossomed out of watercolour paints and onto John’s canvas. A midnight blue shirt with silver buttons that brought out those eyes and classic black trousers that accentuated his long legs with clean pressed lines. Without thinking, he mixed a deep crimson on his palette and painted in a pool of red beneath Sherlock’s Italian leather shoes.

John supposed it was meant to be symbolic since Sherlock had never really stood in a pool of blood, or maybe it was reminiscent of that time he came home on the Tube after harpooning a dead pig…But whatever it was meant to be, it made Mary look concerned as she came over to check on John.

“John? Who is this man? Is he important? Why won’t you paint anyone else?” Of course he was important, but John didn’t answer; instead putting the finishing touches on the phone in Sherlock’s hand.

“He’s my flatmate,” said John quietly, remembering that he had already told Mary this fact, and he looked around to see if the others were paying attention. Oliver and Myles hadn’t come in today, June and Gareth were hard at work on their paintings, and Greta was in the loo. “My flatmate- among other things.” He turned to face her. “Have you heard of him? He was in the papers a couple times,” John added, almost too calmly.

Mary looked confused, her eyebrows knitted together. “What’s his name?”

“ _Sherlock_ , Sherlock Holmes,” and Mary’s eyes went wide.

“Then you’re—“

“Yeah, I’m the blogger.” John put his brush down after rinsing it in his water cup.

“But he’s—“

“Dead,” John finished, his voice sounding a bit dead, too.

“Oh, John. I’m so sorry,” and she pulled him into a tight hug, but John stiffened. He gave her a tight smile as he shrugged out of her arms.

“It’s been over a year, and I still can’t move on,” he whispered, knowing full well that Mary would assume they had been involved, that they had been more than friends. And he would let her make that assumption.

Mary pursed her lips together and John could practically _feel_ her pity for him, radiating in the air. He didn’t want it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.rkdn.org/roses/colors.asp According to this site, a single rose of any colour signifies Gratitude, and a yellow rose with a red tip means Friendship, Falling in love.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He paid the cabbie and then proceeded to stumble up the flight of stairs to 221B, but strands of melody, melancholy and delicate, floated down the steps to meet John’s ears familiarly. The music sounded like an apology, a couple’s first waltz, the soundtrack to a kiss intermingled with tears. It sounded like home, and being home with someone you loved. John's POV.

_October (cont.)_

Harry had invited him over for dinner, and as always, John was unsure what to bring since he doesn’t want to go empty-handed. A bottle of wine wouldn’t be a good gift to an alcoholic. But Harry had patched it back together somehow with Clara, like she always used to do when they were just girlfriends, before they were married. No more drinking, she had sworn. Like she always promised.

Thankfully, John opened the fridge to find that Mrs. Hudson had baked bread and has kindly wrapped up some in cling film for him. Banana bread, with walnuts and a nice sugared crust. Perfect.

Harry and Clara (had once, and now again) shared a flat, and John was used to taking the Tube and then catching a cab to visit them. He’d gone often when they were married, and Harry hadn’t moved far when she’d bought a flat after they’d fallen out. Clara greeted him at the door after he’d rung once, giving him a brief hug and taking the banana bread. “How have things been?” she asked him. Harry probably hadn’t said anything to Clara about him recently, though why would she? He’s hardly said anything to her about Sherlock, after all, besides the blog, which he knew that she read.

“Nothing really new” and he kept it at that.

“Oh, you’ve got your cane back,” she commented. He sighed and shrugged like, _What can you do?_ She shrugged back and smiled. Clara looked mostly the same since John had last seen her, if a bit slimmer. Her red hair went down to the middle of her back, and she straightened her blue shirtdress as she led John to the kitchen. They sat down to wait for Harriet.

“Johnny!”  she exclaimed as she finally came down the stairs, heels clacking. Harry walked into the kitchen grinning.

“Harry.” John smiled back. Harry’s curly blonde hair had grown out past her shoulders, and she looked happier and healthier than ever. Being back together with Clara had done her lots of good. He didn’t hug his older sister, but the brief shared smile was enough.

Dinner turned out to be just a quiet little affair with only the three of them, and quite a bit awkward with lots of smiling and nodding, but John doubted anyone noticed beside him. Harry and Clara seemed too caught up in each other and he couldn’t look at them during dinner once without feeling like he was infringing upon a private moment. Or perhaps it was him longing to have a relationship like them. The chemistry between them was palpable, and while the conversation was anything but sparse, John left Harry and Clara’s home wondering where he’d ever gone wrong.

**\--------**

A week later, John had had a long day full of misunderstandings with the newly employed GP at the clinic; incidents with misplacing things and who was supposed to take which patients- and was feeling his own frustration with the ever-present fatigue and his still-shaking hand. He’d gone down to a pub- at first, thinking to ask Mike, but then John decided he wanted to be alone. Get drunk alone, that is.

He had tipped back two pints of Stella and was already feeling unsteady on his feet, a comfortable buzz going on, in addition to the overlapping bits of conversation from other occupants of the pub. It was a holiday today, but hardly anyone he knew his age celebrated it- perhaps only with alcohol. Warm tingles spread throughout his extremities and he knew he was well beyond slightly tipsy. He wasn’t holding his alcohol as well as he used to, he had noticed, and so he decided to hail a cab before he did something he’d regret later.

 

He paid the cabbie and then proceeded to stumble up the flight of stairs to 221B, but strands of melody, melancholy and delicate, floated down the steps to meet John’s ears familiarly. The music sounded like an apology, a couple’s first waltz, the soundtrack to a kiss intermingled with tears. It sounded like home, and being home with someone you loved.

He climbed up the stairs, slowly and relying on his cane, to find the door unlocked, and he felt momentary alarm when he saw that the light in the sitting room was on. He couldn’t remember if he’d turned it off earlier or if he had locked the door, but the music must have been coming from inside the flat. The music continued, swelling as it seemed to get louder and more emotional as he got closer, edging towards the door. It echoed in his bones like a greeting, a reunion, a passionate embrace, a goodbye, and yet a hello.

The room seemed to blur around the edges of his vision as he pushed open the door, promptly banging his head on the doorframe.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

John blinked at the seemingly over-bright light coming from a lamp in addition to the fixture overhead. The sound of notes being reverently drawn out of the instrument surrounded him, and for a moment, he was glad he still had his cane, for it kept him from falling over immediately. A red-haired figure stood in depth of the shadows; head bent over in consuming concentration, playing the sweetest, saddest descant that John had ever heard from a violin, was silhouetted in dark-coloured clothes against the dark gold drapes covering the window. The song ended, the last note still reverberating in the silence, and he turned from the window to face John.

“I’m so, so sorry, John,” the man whispered sadly, the words sounding full of sorrow and yet joy.

Was this…? What? Sherlock?

And John was barely aware of his fist reflexively connecting with Sherlock’s jaw, but there was a startling amount of noise as the man fell over. John desperately hoped this wasn’t just some figment of his imagination, that his intoxication wasn’t just messing with his perception of reality, his headaches just causing a hallucination of someone he so longed for. But the man didn’t fade away and then John swore loudly, coming to sit next to him on the carpet.

How could it be him? Even though John had never truly believed that Sherlock was dead, he had accepted that he wasn’t coming back anytime soon, and he had tried to move on, however well that had turned out. But there was no way that this wasn’t Sherlock. The face was the same, though perhaps with some cuts and bruises and lines that hadn’t been there before, but it was the face John remembered by heart and he could draw it by memory. He did actually; he _had_ drawn Sherlock by memory. It was as if the lines of his face had been permanently etched onto the back of his eyelids as he fell asleep every night, onto his brain along with those idiosyncrasies he had, and onto his heart with that rare, tender smile, his crazy sleeping schedule, the way he’d run his hand though his hair while thinking, his arrogance, the random huffy rants about Anderson, and _every single little detail_ John had ever memorized that made Sherlock, _well_ , Sherlock. His eyes drifted over the tiny freckles over Sherlock’s left eye, the curls that had been dark brown but were now red, that pale, long neck. God, he had missed him.

 

Shit, Sherlock was still lying on the floor…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head-canon Harriet Watson, Alex Kingston: http://images4.fanpop.com/image/photos/15600000/Alex-Kingston-alex-kingston-15685074-517-604.jpg  
> Possibly Catherine Tate for Clara: http://images.zap2it.com/images/celeb-495411/catherine-tate-0.jpg  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How did you--” No, more importantly; “Why didn’t you tell me?” He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and they were the colour of the roiling ocean, the hue of waves lapping at the sandy shore in the moonlight, the tint of sea foam bubbling at the brink of the water’s edge. John's POV.

Sherlock, well Sherlock with garishly-fake red hair and John thought he had seen nondescript brown-coloured contacts, still lay fallen on the floor with the force of John’s left hook to his jaw, which he guessed he should have been proud of. He was quite possibly unconscious.

“J-John,” Sherlock groaned, his voice soft and hoarse from the wind being knocked out of him in falling. So, _no_ t unconscious…God, it really was him. His voice, however soft, still floated over John in a smooth velvety baritone that he hadn’t realized he had missed so much.

“Sherlock,” was all he said and he thought he might just sit there and sob. How could he be back? How could he be alive? John had so many questions, but above all- why did Sherlock tell him he was alive earlier? He cleared his throat and tried to clear his thoughts. “Are you okay? Fuck, I’m sorry, I just panicked. Can you sit up?” The doctor in him wanted to make sure there was no head trauma and to examine all those bruises and cuts, but he buried the instinct and just offered Sherlock a hand to steady himself.

“It’s fine,” he said, clutching his side as he sat up, though it was obviously not fine. He ran a hand through his auburn hair.

“Uh, is there a reason why your hair is that god-awful shade of red?” John raised an eyebrow.

“It’s my Halloween costume, John,” Sherlock tried to joke, coughing a bit.

“Right. Er. I’ve got questions, as you probably know. Can you get to your chair? I just go make us both a cuppa—“

Sherlock cut him off. “No need, just pour it out. I’ve got some steeping in the kitchen already.”

John nodded, heading for the kitchen, and Sherlock crawled towards the couch, rubbing at his jaw.

 

Their two oldest mugs sat on the kitchen counter. A chipped black and white striped one (John’s) and a slightly stained blue and white striped one (Sherlock’s). John’s was conveniently located on the left. John gathered the two mugs and the blue ceramic teapot plus the additives like milk and sugar, and honey, because Sherlock takes his Earl Grey with honey. “Do you still take it the same way?” he asked, walking into the sitting room carrying a tray with the tea.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, almost like it would’ve been atrocious if he didn’t. He was bent over in his chair untying his shoelaces. Shoelaces on his…combat boots? For the first time since he’d come in, John noticed Sherlock’s strange, very out-of-character attire. A black studded leather jacket with spike-adorned, possibly padded, shoulders, an olive-coloured cotton V-neck, very tight black leather trousers, and the black combat boots he was currently unlacing.

“Why are you dressed….are you supposed to be dressed like a punk?” John inquired incredulously, placing the tray down on the coffee table next to his chair. He poured out two cups of tea, and waited for them to cool while waiting for Sherlock’s answer.

Sherlock finally got the laces fully undone and tugged the boots off, revealing a pair of black socks. “It’s supposed to be my disguise,” he replied, gesturing to his apparel.

“Then why dye your hair a ridiculous shade of red?” John automatically added in milk and stirred in honey to Sherlock’s tea, and dropped in sugar cube for himself.

“I understand that hair-dying in unnatural colours and black and is common among, as you put it, punks?” Sherlock accepted the cup of tea John handed to him, holding it in the vicinity of his mouth for a while before taking an actual sip.

“Common amongst teenagers, but not with thirty-something year old men!” John chuckled, and then Sherlock did too.

“I suppose I needed a new look,” and they sipped at their tea while John tried to breach the real question. There was a fire going in the hearth. Sherlock must have started in when he was in the kitchen. John stared into the fire, and maybe it was just him, but as the mood dropped, even the air seemed to still.

“How did you--” No, more importantly; “Why didn’t you tell me?” He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, the colour of the roiling ocean, the hue of waves lapping at the sandy shore in the moonlight, the tint of sea foam bubbling at the brink of the water’s edge.

“I--” Sherlock bit his lip. He put down his mug. He tried to start again, but clenched his eyes shut. “I--”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were still alive?” John whispered, his voice breaking on the last word. Something like a half-gasp, half-sob came out of John somewhere deep inside his chest, rattling around in his rib cage and beating in time with his heart. The silence was cold, and he shivered even as the fire crackled slightly.

“I…I had to keep you safe, John. They, they were going to kill you, if I didn’t jump.” Sherlock buried his face in his hands. “You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, three shots, from three separate snipers- right through all of your hearts. It was nothing to him, death was welcomed and he killed himself. And they couldn’t be called off without him- I had to fall. Or all of you would." He sighed.

“Then why everything about telling me that you were a fake? Why did you make me watch, Sherlock?” John asked. “Why did you make me watch you die?” His voice caught on the last word, not unexpectedly. Sherlock opened his eyes.

“You were never meant to see me fall. I had this all planned out. You were always supposed to be safe with Mrs. Hudson, whom I made you think was dying of a gunshot wound. And you called me a machine.” He pauses. “You were never meant to watch. The call was supposed to be my goodbye, but you were supposed to be at Baker Street, not St. Barts,” he said softly, lifting his head to rub at his fingers against his temples.

“I told you that I made up Moriarty because he meant for it to be my fall from grace, along with my literal fall from the hospital roof. I went along with it because I thought it might distance you from me, detach the memories that would no doubt play on loop in your mind, in hopes that my death might hurt you less. But no matter what I said, what people said, I couldn’t convince you. Couldn’t make you think it was all just fairytales. All just lies. Only lies, because you knew me like no one else did. And what good is it being human if you can’t try to save the ones you care for?” And he laughed; the abrupt shift in mood startling. “Thank you, John. If anything, your unfaltering loyalty and belief has kept me fighting for the past 494 days,” and then he inhaled shakily and the sound was heartbreaking.

“You never forgot me either. I watched you closely, and all those times you thought that you saw me on the street? It probably was me, in another disguise. My job was to take down Moriarty’s web, with only Mycroft as help. It was a dangerous game, for if any of them ever saw me, I’d be dead. And possibly you, too.” His eyes met John’s and all he could think of was that they looked like coming home. “I would never have been able to bear that, even in the afterlife. That I was the one responsible for your death.” Sherlock started to look embarrassed that he had shared this, all while looking like a kicked puppy when John didn’t say anything.

John sat there a bit numbly, the words stuck on his clumsy-feeling tongue. And so he did the first thing that came to mind and got up to pull Sherlock into an embrace. Their position was awkward with John standing and Sherlock still sitting, but it allowed John’s shoulder to cradle Sherlock’s head and Sherlock melted into the embrace gladly. John thought that he might never let Sherlock go for fear of ever losing him again and they clung onto each other like drowning sailors to driftwood, reflections of the fire in the grate flickering around them.

He breathed in the scent of Sherlock’s skin- the unfamiliar residue of cheap hotel soap, strong roasted dark coffee, cinnamon, and cigarette smoke intermingling with the musk of sweat and heat. And John knew he’d be dreaming of this scent, even though he somehow knew this smell wasn’t quite _Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Sorry for the super-long wait! I've been trying to post this chapter for a long time, working around school work and such. I don't really like this chapter, it's kind of an odd mix of my humour and angst...like usual. As always, I try my best with editing and being error-free, though if you spot any, feel free to point them out- the help is much appreciated! All the chapters have been spot-checked, possibly slightly-edited, please go back and check if you want, as the storyline has very slightly changed.
> 
> Also, if you haven't noticed, Sherlock was only away for one year and about 4 months, unlike the canon time of 3 years. Yes, longer time would probably have been more angst-filled but it may have gotten boring for John...or the reader.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night Sherlock returns, John dreams again. John's POV.

That night, John dreams of the past.

They are back at the swimming pool, him and Sherlock and Moriarty. But this time, it is _Sherlock_ in the vest, _Sherlock_ strapped up to the bombs, _Sherlock’s_ life at stake. The eerily blue glow from the lights reflecting off the pool bounces around on their faces.

 _“I will burn the_ heart _out of you,”_ John hears, but it sounds distorted like it’s coming from under the water and suddenly flames burst into existence, spreading up the far left wall and catching fire quickly. _“Deep End,”_ a sign says posted on the wall, before the first word blazes and scorches away, and then all it reads is _“End”_. The fire forms a trail towards them, looking like the lit string end of an old-fashioned bomb. There are singe marks against the painted marks calibrating the depth of the water on the concrete, burnt brown and black. The line of fire flares every so often as comes closer and closer, like it’s following some invisible liquid fuel. Leading right to Sherlock. “No!” Sherlock shouts, but then he screams and it echoes unbelievably loud in the night, the sound ricocheting off ceramic tiles. A few sparks flash orange and yellow and gold at his feet, and then a flame licks up the side of his right trouser leg and he screams again. John stands there, heart nearly beating out of his chest, the Browning L941 held tightly in his hands, poised to shoot, but then they’re both flame-covered. It’s all a blur in a matter of seconds.

Moriarty turns his back to take the phone call, and John pushes Sherlock into the water as he jumps in alongside him. Their breath turns to miniscule bubbles of oxygen and carbon dioxide in the pool as they flail, and suddenly Moriarty is gone and their lungs gasp and sputter and choke on the steam and the smoke and the water.

The swimming pool becomes a roiling, bottomless ocean and John thinks he’s going to drown, perhaps get sucked under by a whirlpool or lured beneath by a beautiful sea siren. The vest of bombs, which has stopped ticking, is wet and is dragging Sherlock down, deep down where it’s dark and John can’t see him anymore. He swims furiously towards him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead as he struggles to stay afloat, the waves crashing over and into him. After what seems like an eternity of watching Sherlock bob down and up under each crest of the waves, he reaches him finally, but almost too late. “Sherlock!” he coughs, spitting out seawater. There’s no answer, or maybe there is, the sound just covered by the jarring wind and collapsing waves. He grabs out for something, anything, and he touches an arm and he starts to hoist Sherlock higher, above the water so that he can breathe on his own. John turns Sherlock’s body to face him, but he’s gone unconscious and his lips are blue with cold. John gasps, a sharp intake of breath like _oh-God-this isn't-happening_ ; and suddenly, they are on dry land again.

They’re in emergency room at Saint Bart’s. John has been here many times, while he was in school here and all the times he and Sherlock had to get patched up after hunting down criminals and murderers. It’s empty except for them, and everything is stark white; painted drywall and slightly sticky linoleum, all tainted with the smell of disinfectants and chemicals and a hint of death. John’s wearing a lab coat and Sherlock’s shirt is open and he’s on the examining table. He’s hooked up to monitors, telling him that he’s got no pulse and no oxygen, and John knows what he has to do. _Restart his heart._

He goes for the defibrillator and it pains him to, but he shocks him. A few times, and then Sherlock gasps for breath like a fish out of water, chest heaving with every painful wheeze. John’s heart stops running overtime and he sighs softly with relief at Sherlock’s lungs finally working on their own. With bated breath, he waits for Sherlock to open his eyes and then he inhales sharply; for when Sherlock’s eyelids blink open, they reveal a pure, milky, unseeing shade of white.

Those ivory-coloured eyes look out of place on Sherlock’s already pale face and they seem to bulge out of their sockets. They swivel to look down blindly at the red spot that appears out of nowhere on his bare abdomen, near his navel. It’s the bright red light of a sniper’s tracker, and suddenly, with a loud click, it morphs into a quickly-spreading patch of crimson blood like he’s been pierced by an invisible bullet. John rushes over to cradle him in his arms, steadfastly not glancing into those cold, dead-looking eyes, and he tries to save him, tries to stop the bleeding as much as he can. But the blood flows over his hands unceasingly, like a rushing red river of life source all gone to waste pouring onto and into someone else’s body. And then Sherlock takes another stilted breath, and without warning, they’re back in Afghanistan and John’s an army doctor again with yet another dying soldier as his patient.

John can taste sand both on the wind and clotted in his lungs, and he glances down at his hands, hot and red and sticky with Sherlock’s blood spread thick on his skin. Sherlock’s blood, mixed together with the blood of his enemies and even the blood of his friends, and he can smell it, soiling and staining him inside and out as he slowly dies in his arms. Rust and salt and pain and- _“No,”_ he whispers weakly, as he feels Sherlock starting to drift away. “Don’t you _dare_ leave me. Not again.” And his words come out like a broken sob and then he feels the body in his arms go limp, Sherlock’s eyes now back to their beautiful, beautiful shade of blue. And that blue, the never-ending blue is the last thing John sees before he steps up to the ledge on the roof.

Up here on the roof of the hospital, he can see everything. All the little people below looking like nothing more than little black ants, marching about with their everyday menial tasks like nothing’s wrong, nothing at all. The sky is the exact shade of his eyes. But he turns back and Sherlock’s body is still there, cold and limp and dead. Without another thought, he hurls himself over the edge and into the air.

The falling is glorious, just like flying; it’s so exhilarating, but still, he is thinking, thinking thoughts that are going to drive him more and more insane every second. Is this how Sherlock always feels? Like there are too many thoughts, too many feelings, and too many pieces of information to cramp inside of one human brain?

John hurtles through the air and he brings his arms and legs closer in to his body to go even faster and he finds himself looking forward to the end, for it means that he will finally stop thinking of that beautiful blue that is beginning to crowd out all the other thoughts. Suddenly, Sherlock is down below, smiling up at him and looking for all the world like he might even catch him. _Get out of the way_ , he wants to shout. He wants to push him away and put him somewhere safe where no one will ever harm him. _Please, I need to do this_ , he wants to add. He feels so guilty that he is one of the reasons that Sherlock left, one of the reasons he just dropped everything and faked his death. _I’ll die for you_ , he thinks. _You can live._ Then John seems to fall through him, like the man he saw was just a ghost, just a hallucination, just a dream. And then, along with all of the bones in his body, he can feel his skull shattering and his heart bursting, breaking, and it brings him sweet release, for his mind finally goes silent. And he sinks deeper and deeper as the darkness finally takes him.

But that sweet release doesn’t last long because all of a sudden, he’s walking again, endlessly walking in that darkness for God knows how long, and then he trips and he falls again, but this time, it’s not so exhilarating. He shrieks out to anyone that’s there, arms reaching out for something to cling to like he’s drowning once again but this time, in nothingness. A pair of glowing red eyes glares out at John from the darkness and it’s the eyes of the Hound, following him and watching as he falls deeper into this unfathomable void. He feels insanity slowly rising up in his chest, if insanity was a tangible feeling, and it’s terrifying, knowing that he is being slowly driven crazy. He cries out in the darkness, and the insanity rises and swells out of him like a wave and all he wants to do is run away. But he can’t, because he’s still falling and falling while the Hound watches on. The face of the Hound morphs into Moriarty’s visage, leering at him and laughing manically till the sound fills John’s ears and he can hear nothing else but horrid cackles and his own screams. Then somehow Moriarty and the Hound are one, a terrifying man with blood-shot crimson eyes and sharp, curved yellowed teeth, and then the man-beast leans forward to bite him, teeth bared and hot breath humid on John’s skin, and John tries to back away but he’s still falling and screaming and flailing as he goes head-first, falling into the darkness.

 

 _“John? I heard a thump and I thought you yelled out,”_ Sherlock’s voice said, sounding comforting even though it seemed far away like John was still half-dreaming. “What are you doing on the floor? Are you okay? John?” Sherlock sounded so concerned and John couldn’t even bring himself to reply, except to grunt, because then he knew he would just fall apart at the seams right then and there. He could hardly trust himself to speak, anyways. Sherlock’s hands were warm on his body before John even knew what was happening, and Sherlock cradled his body and picked him up easily, placing him back on the bed and tucking in the covers around him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Sherlock asked again, bending down to examine John’s face, as if the secrets were hidden in the dried tears and weariness.

John opened his eyes and then all he saw was that beautiful shade of blue. All he could say was “Don’t go, please,” and his voice must have sounded hoarse from all the shouting he must have done, but to Sherlock, he didn't have to say anything else. He just lifted up John’s blankets and climbed into the bed next to him without needing to hear a reason.

John leaned into his warm body, Sherlock’s favourite blue silk dressing gown rubbing comfortingly against his cheek and the sound of his heart beating steadily against John's ear, and as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him tightly, he lost himself in Sherlock’s scent, his head buried in the crook of the other man’s neck. He has showered since he returned, and now he smelled of his blood orange and vanilla soap, slightly minty aftershave, cinnamon and cloves, and a hint of cigarette smoke. And his dressing gown brought back memories of Bunsen burners in the kitchen and coffee with two sugars and long nights spent staring and shooting at the sitting room wall. He smelled like tea with milk and honey, salt and brine like the ocean, and home. John couldn’t remember how he had lived so long without all this, without Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes, wide in unconcealed worry for John, were the last thing he saw before he burst into tears, thick, body-wracking but silent sobs, salty tears running down over his face and dripping into his mouth, and he hoped to God that it wouldn’t stain Sherlock’s silk robe, but Sherlock just held him closer and let him just cry it all out.

\-------

John woke up in the wee hours of the morning and he couldn’t remember if he’d dreamt of anything after that one giant nightmare, but Sherlock was still here and the fact that he had stayed comforted him. He turned and gently extracted himself from Sherlock, smiling a bit at the way Sherlock looked so young while asleep. He was turned towards John’s side, the left side of the bed, his arms still reaching for him even in sleep. Sherlock muttered something softly, turning slightly. The aftermath of last night’s dream actually made him feel wanted and a bit warm inside.

John thought maybe this should feel awkward that they’d just slept in the same bed, but this wasn’t even the first time. Sherlock had comforted him numerous times after nightmares. And a case in Potter’s Bar had meant staying in a bed and breakfast to investigate the murder of five of the cleaning staff there, and by then, they had already been comfortable enough to share a room, and a bed, also considering the expense of renting two separate ones. There was also the added bonus of not having to run down the hall if something happened in the middle of the night.

John headed downstairs, his legs moving sluggishly and his limbs feeling a bit achy from when he had rolled off the bed and onto the floor. He did so without the cane and somehow still made it down the stairs, his bare feet padding softly against the floor and he gasped a little at the coldness of the ceramic tiles in the bathroom and the brightness of the overhead lighting. He relieved himself and washed his hands, and then just stood there for a moment looking into the mirror. His eyes were red and his eyelids were slightly swollen from all the crying. John ran a hand through his mussed hair, and sighed. He looked a mess, and he told his reflection so before gulping down a glass of water.

When John came back, closing his bedroom door quietly behind him, Sherlock was awake already and sitting up with his fingers steepled beneath his chin in his “Thinking Position”, as John called it, with the lamp on. “John,” he said, looking up. “Are you okay?” Sherlock was pale, almost as pale as he had been John’s dream, and his eyes were wide with concern.

“No,” John answered. “Quite honestly, no.” He was quite _far_ from okay, and it was obvious that Sherlock knew this.

“Do you want to talk?” Sherlock asked, a bit apprehensively. “I’m not really sure, but is that the right thing to ask?”

“Um, I suppose it is. Yes, it is. Sure. Why not? Thank you for asking,” John smiled at him, despite how not okay he was, and Sherlock smiled back. His heart swelled a little bit, for he really was touched by how Sherlock was trying, really trying to help him. Of course it wasn’t the first time, but it still made him happy.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock whispered, and it was like a little verbal push for John to go forward and give his speech.

John closed his eyes and sighed, memories flickering behind his eyelids as he reimagined his nightmares and gave Sherlock the full account. The images played on a loop in his mind’s eye, his memories tumbling out without a thought, the words sounding like bitter sobs to his ears. He could hear the sheets rustling, but then he felt Sherlock’s arms go around him again, just like last night.

The moon was still up in the morning sky, and John turned off the lamp and they fell asleep together again, two hearts beating in tandem.

He was safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was all written on a laptop while I had no power during Hurricane Sandy, but as always, I try my best with editing and being error-free, though if you spot any, feel free to point them out- the help is much appreciated! All the chapters have recently been spot-checked, possibly slightly-edited, please go back and check if you want, as the storyline has very slightly changed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He broke the silence: “Who else knows you’re back?” Alive, he meant. And then he bit his lip, for it suddenly seemed a very private question to ask.
> 
> Sherlock turned towards him, and then while counting on his fingers, said: “Mycroft, of course. Irene, as I checked on her once in America when I was visiting.” He made little air quotes with his fingers around the word “visiting”. “Mrs. Hudson, when she saw me coming into the flat last night. Molly. And you, obviously.”
> 
> “Are w--” John almost said we. “Are you going to tell anyone else?”
> 
> John's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing explicit yet, just a bit of arousal.

“The morning after” seemed like a strange term to use for…whatever this was.

After all, both Sherlock and John were still fully-clothed in pajamas (and a dressing gown for Sherlock), and it was only John feeling the slightly ragged edge of a hangover-induced headache. But they were still curled up together, bodies still half-intertwined, as the sun began to peek out from beneath the clouds to poke its way through the curtains and into John’s bedroom. John shivered a little and realized he’d thrown off the covers during the night, and with good reason too; Sherlock put out body heat like a furnace.

 

 As John awoke, he felt Sherlock starting to stir beside him. He watched as Sherlock mushed his face into his pillow, like it would somehow block out the day from starting and the sun from shining so brightly.

“Ugh. It’s morning already?” Sherlock groaned, sitting up slowly and running a hand through his sleep-mussed, still-red head of curls.

“Sadly, yes,” John answered. “What day is it? Saturday?” He stretched, his arms extended up above him in the air.

“If yesterday was Friday, then yes.”

“Ha bloody ha.” Oh, he had missed this, this easy banter.

John swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his cane. “I need a shower. Can I trust you to make breakfast?” Then he thought for a second. “And will you eat it too?”

“Yes, John. I’m not going to burn the flat down or anything,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And actually, I’m famished,” Sherlock added, standing up and stretching. He straightened his dressing gown, fingers smoothing down the blue silk. “You go have your shower and I’ll cook. Anything you want in particular to eat?”

“Doesn’t really matter. I did the shopping on Thursday, so we should have food still stocked in the fridge.”

“Okay, well…anything goes, then.”

\-------

 

John came out of the bathroom to the smell of cheese.

 

Not cheese burning, that he was glad of. Cheese which, as he found out when he limped into the kitchen, was coupled with mushrooms and ham inside an omelette. An omelette! A real omelette folded perfectly in half; even had the little bits of parsley on top. John smiled as Sherlock concentrated on folding the second omelette carefully, and then transferred it perfectly from pan to plate with a spatula.

 

“Looks delicious,” he commented. “Remind me why you don’t cook more often?”

 

“Tedious,” Sherlock pronounced, hurriedly clearing the table so they could put the plates down and eat breakfast. “Especially if I’m not going to eat it most of the time. And obviously it’s only simple cooking, just as much as you can do.”

 

“Right.” John grabbed two forks and knives, placing the plates down onto the cleared side of the table. “Cuppa of tea?”

“Kettle’s just boiled,” answered Sherlock offhandedly, grabbing the silverware. And John took out two mugs and the tin of tea leaves, and made them some tea.

 

They ate while looking over the papers in their dressing gowns and pajamas, and Sherlock told him about some adventures and always refilled his mug with tea with having to ask. And so they had a wonderfully domestic, peaceful morning accompanied by a delicious breakfast that Sherlock ate every single bite of.

 

Well, almost.

 

\-------

The table was cleaned up and they were relaxing quietly; Sherlock stretched out on the sofa while reading and John poking around on his laptop, pondering on whether or not to inform his blog readers of Sherlock’s reappearance. And you know, also the whole thing with him still being alive too. _Best not yet **,**_ he thought.

He broke the silence: “Who else knows you’re back?” _Alive,_ he meant. And then he bit his lip, for it suddenly seemed a very private question to ask.

Sherlock turned towards him, and then while counting on his fingers, said: “Mycroft, of course. Irene, as I checked on her once in America when I was visiting.” He made little air quotes with his fingers around the word “visiting”. “Mrs. Hudson, when she saw me coming into the flat last night. Molly. And you, obviously.”

“Are w--” John almost said _we._ “Are you going to tell anyone else?”

“Of course we will,” and John immediately noticed his pronoun change. “I had planned to visit Lestrade and Molly today. Perhaps Stamford too. Maybe you should email them. And I suppose that everyone else can find out from the blog that you will be writing to inform people of my not-being-dead. And your last question?” Sherlock placed a notecard in his book to mark his page and closed it. _The Care and Keeping of Bees_ , the cover read, the text placed above an image of a tall glass jar of honey.

John cleared his throat, for this was a serious question. “Will that red dye in your hair wash out eventually? Honestly, I’m having a hard time adjusting...Ginger I could live with, but bright red?”

They chuckled.

\-------

It was a cool afternoon, nearly cool enough to see one’s breath like a puff of smoke, and fallen autumn leaves rustled against the sidewalks as pedestrians chatted amiably as if there was no hurry to be anywhere this Saturday. Sherlock had on sunglasses, his scarf, a hat, and his leather jacket from last night, but even with the disguise and his red hair, he was recognizable. At least to John; who had to keep stifling laughter at the longish red curls poking out from under the brim of a fedora.

Sherlock and John walked into the entrance of New Scotland Yard, carrying inside with them the brisk November air, which had tucked itself in the folds of Sherlock’s scarf and the open lapels of John’s coat.

 _Homicides_ , said a sign on the wooden department door, and they turned inside. Greg was there to greet them, and his bright smile seemed to make it easier to tune out all the pointing and whispering of the other officers. Sherlock took off his sunglasses, like a sign of respect.

“John,” Lestrade said, clasping his hand warmly. They shook hands, and John was very glad that it wasn’t awkward at all that this was the first time in over a year that he had seen him; they hadn’t had much reason to- after Sherlock…left.

He turned. “Sherlock.”

And then Sherlock surprised them all, taking Greg’s hand and then pulling him close for one of those, as John termed, “man-hugs”. _“I’m so sorry,”_ John heard, softly whispered against what must have been Sherlock’s ear. There seemed to be much more history between them than John knew about.

They pulled apart and Sherlock nodded. “Greg,” he said quietly. This was the first time he had formally addressed the DI by his first name and that acknowledgement seemed monumental for some reason. But then John was pushed aside, almost roughly, and Sally Donovan came forward out of the crowd that was slowly forming to catch a little glimpse of the great Sherlock Holmes, rumoured to be back from the dead.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all this, Frea-... _Sherlock_ ,” she corrected herself, and she stood herself up tall like she was bracing herself for his complete and utter disregard, this time to her apology. “I know it must have been hard.”

 _Somewhere in the room Anderson must be attempting not to scowl_ , John thought.

Sally held out her hand boldly, and Sherlock took it and looked like he might just kiss the back of it for a laugh, but he shook it and Sally smiled. Then she moved back a little, raising an eyebrow. “God, what happened to your hair?”

They all laughed at his answer: “Testing out something new, I suppose.”

\-------

John had emailed Molly about coming into Bart’s and had called Mike, who had said he would be in his office, drawing up a lesson plan for the coming week. But he hadn’t told them why he’d wanted to know if they would be in; the first sight of Sherlock should be enough. They actually ran into Mike in the corridor, and he pulled them both into his office.

“Cor!” he exclaimed, as John looked around the office. A skull lay atop a shelf, much like Sherlock’s skull he kept on the mantle (Billy, Sherlock called it), and the shelves were lined with books, not just medical ones, but novels and history textbooks too. Mike was so happy and excited; they could hardly get a word in edgewise.

“It really is you! I mean, I always believed John and everything. Who wouldn’t have wanted it to be true? The great Sherlock Holmes actually still alive, and all of your stories being true? But I guess it is the truth, and you just had to sort of wait out the whole fiasco with Moriarty, right?” Mike was definitely more intelligent that Sherlock gave him credit for; easily figuring out why Sherlock had been away. “Must have been a hell of a rough time for you, though, dodging the paps- did you dye your hair as some sort of disguise?”

John smiled. Sherlock’s “new” hair seemed to be everyone’s first question. Mike chattered on, and Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself in this little chat.  

John bid them a short little goodbye, and excused himself to the loo so that Sherlock could talk to Mike in private. Maybe he’d find the staff lounge and get some coffee too.

\-------

Exiting the loo, he walked down the hallway, trying to maybe intercept Sherlock’s path towards Molly’s office, while going to get the coffees.

Being here again in Saint Bart’s felt like the first day that he’d met Sherlock. Probably was because he had his cane again. John scowled to himself. He hadn’t been able to figure out why his psychosomatic limp had just _decided_ to come back. He had lost his limp originally while they had been on a case, their first case, somehow not only able to walk without it, but also run without the aid of this stupid metal nuisance. That had seemed so long ago, but it was still all in his head. Especially since there was no wound or anything that was keeping him from walking like he used to, just horrid pain that sometimes felt fake but most of the time was horridly real. Perhaps he’d be able to ditch the cane again and lose the tremor in his left hand, since Sherlock was back and would be able to help him.

Just milk for him. Black, two sugars for Sherlock. Now, how was he to carry both coffees and walk with his cane? There were paper trays, thankfully. Lost in his thoughts, John nearly ran into some random hospital worker carrying boxes, who apologized profusely when he saw John’s cane _and_ the two coffees. John smiled; a quirk of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and then sighed as the man walked away unassumingly. He had never wanted pity, and yet he would grudgingly accept it if need be.

He turned another corner, finding himself in the hallway near Sherlock’s lab. Molly’s office was nearly across from it, and as John got closer, he could make out two people talking in hushed tones.

Molly and Sherlock.

 

John could catch random phrases and words from the conversation as he walked slowly towards the office, not really wanting to eavesdrop. Cadaver. Fake. Ball. Roof. Dead.

So that was what they were talking about. He stopped in front of the slightly open door.

“So, did you finally get them all?” There was a rustling sound, Molly filing papers, probably.

“Yes, finally. It would have taken much longer than a year and a half, but Mycroft’s men attempted to assist me,” Another drawer opened. “Here, let me help,” Sherlock offered.

“Well, I’m thankful for that,” Molly said. She must have hugged him. “I’m glad to have you back, safe and sound. God knows how much…” John couldn’t hear the last bit.

“Thank you, Molly. Truly. Only you know how much, and I am forever in your debt.” Sherlock sounded so sincere; had Molly been the one to provide a dead body and orchestrate this whole fake death scheme?

 John felt shock run through him like cold water through his veins. After all this time, Molly had known? John closed his eyes.

She had probably tried to get the message across to him, that Sherlock was still alive, still out there. All those signs and John had completely missed it.

In the beginning, Molly had tried to keep in contact with him, but after a while, John had felt like keeping a smile up was too hard and even normal emails had become too difficult to write. Molly’s optimistic outlook had gotten annoying and her idle small talk had made him want to grind his teeth. It wasn’t just her. People in general had made him want to fade away, not as in dying, but as in invisibility, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with all of this inanity. He had wondered if this was what Sherlock felt all the time, like people just didn’t understand, didn’t see the bigger picture but were all just walking around clueless.

But Molly had been persistent, trying to keep John talking and meeting up with her, but they had had nothing to talk about- John was a doctor, and Molly a morgue attendant; they cared for opposite ends of the human spectrum, after all. The one thing they had in common had been _Sherlock_ , and neither of them had really wanted to talk about him.

One day, Molly had just pressed a little rubber ball into his hands right before she had left the coffee shop, saying, _“One day you’ll figure it out, John. It’ll be alright. Remember this.”_ God, it must have been the one Sherlock had played with that morning…but what did it have to do with his fake death?

 _He’s back now, John_ , he reminded himself.

He wanted to be angry; he wanted it so badly, as anger was an easily explainable emotion that came with doable actions like punching Sherlock in his fury. Not like this crippling sadness and hurt that made him just want to forget about it all and push the whole incident away, wiping the slate clean. And sometimes he thought he maybe he had forgiven him, but not really, right? Lighthearted laughter and a smile on his face would suddenly turn into cold grief, twisting and creating a hole in his heart. And Sherlock had only been back one day. Could he just pretend that it was all okay, that it didn’t all still feel like a dream to him? Could the sight of sunlight bouncing off Sherlock’s curls ever become less bittersweet? After all, how could everything just go back to the way it used to be? How could John just forgive him for leaving him alone, with no goodbye?

_Calm down._

He took a deep breath, preparing to push the door open. “Glad to be of service, but god, I dated him! He…” Molly trailed off.

“Yes, Molly, _I was there_.” Now _there_ was that sarcastic tone John was used to. The Sherlock he knew was back, no matter what his heart said.

The door creaked a bit as it swung open, and Sherlock rushed over before the door could swing back and hit John or worse, hit the coffees.

\-------

They said goodbye to Molly, and strode through the corridors towards the front entrance.  

“Hailing a cab?” John asked; squinting a bit as the rays of the afternoon sun hit his eyes.

“Yes, but do you mind if I stop off at Tesco for a bit? There’s something I need to get,” answered Sherlock. John nodded. “I’ll just ask the cabbie to stop outside a bit.” 

As it turned out, the cabbie was quite happy to let the car keep running (with the meter on) idling at the kerb outside of Tesco, and John thought he sighed disappointedly as Sherlock came out shortly with a small plastic bag.

\-------

When they got home, Sherlock headed straight into his bedroom, and then presumably, to the adjoining bath for a shower. John made himself a cup of tea, and then didn’t start worrying about Sherlock until about an hour had passed- when he needed to go into the bathroom to use the loo.

“Sherlock?” John knocked on the bathroom door. “Is everything alright?” There was no answer. “Can I come in to use the loo?”

“No!"

"Why can I not come in, Sherlock?"

"Go use Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“She’s out at her sister’s, remember? They’re having dinner together?”

“She won’t mind if you just borrowed her keys and let yourself in!”

“I’m not going to go downstairs to another flat when I have a perfectly serviceable bathroom right in front of me! Especially not if I while I have my cane. What are you doing in there anyway?”

There was silence.

“Oh God, you’re not-” John groaned. “Please tell me you haven’t been…for the past hour...”

“No, no, no! Not…that...”

“Then what are you doing? If you’re okay, then just let me in!”

“You have to promise…that you won’t laugh, alright?”

“Why would I laugh? Sherlock, what are you doing?”

More silence.

“Yes, fine, I promise! Now let me in! I need to use the loo!” John jiggled the doorknob. “I’ll ram in this door with my cane, I swear!”

“No, no, no! John, wait!” There was a rustling sound; Sherlock had put on his dressing gown before opening the door. Sherlock’s hair was still bright red and sopping wet from a shower, spiked and fluffed up where he had toweled it. John laughed.

 _“John_ , _”_ Sherlock sighed. _“_ You _promised._ ”

“Sorry.” Another giggle escaped.

“The box of remover,” he added while holding out said box. “Says I needed to start with wet hair. But then it says it’s going to turn it orange? But I don’t want that, do I?”

“So…you’ve been sitting here for over half an hour just trying to figure out the directions?”

“Yes.”

“I can help you, you know. Just…out, so I can use the loo, okay?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John pointed towards the door.

 

After Sherlock heard a flush and the sink facet go on, he opened the door again. “Are you sure you know how to do this?” Sherlock seemed skeptical. John finished washing his hands and leaned his cane against the sink.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“Are you sure? Absolutely sure? Maybe I should just try to do it myself?”

“One of Harry’s friends is a hairdresser and tried to experiment on us once, so yeah, I know how to get out hair-dye,” John explained exasperatedly, opening up the box of hair-colour remover.

“And the orange bit?”

“The foam is white but turns orange when mixed into your hair, okay?” Sherlock mumbled something like _fine_ , and John set to work after grabbing a pair of latex gloves from a box in the kitchen.

 

His mind was drifting as he mixed the hair-dye remover and started to lather it up and massage into Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock was completely silent, finally having stopped his grumbling about being able to do this himself. John had rubbed most of the orange foam into Sherlock’s hair, making circles with his fingers mindlessly until he heard a stifled groan.

“Sherlock? Sorry, am I hurting you?” Was he putting a lot of pressure on Sherlock’s scalp?

Sherlock cleared his throat, and for a fleeting moment, he looked embarrassed; his cheeks rosy and his eyes dark. He looked like he might say something. Then whatever John had seen there was gone.

“No. Perfectly fine. Are we nearly done?” It was a terse sort of reply, but he made it while staring down at the bathroom tiles on the floor. Sherlock bit his lip.

John’s heart twisted inside his chest and he didn’t know why.

“Yeah.” Why had Sherlock gotten all withdrawn again? “It should have gotten most of the red out. If you don’t think that it looks okay, then we’ll use the colour remover again, or just dye your hair darker. Wait about ten minutes, and you can just rinse up.”

John peeled off the disposable gloves and dropped them into the rubbish bin. He sighed, and turned towards the door to leave.

“Wait, John.” Sherlock’s voice made him turn back. “Thank you…thank you for helping me.”

“You’re welcome. That’s what friends are for, aren’t they?”

“Sure.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I'm so sorry this took so long! I've been so stressed with school and exams and stuff- and I've been on hiatus from Polyvore and Tumblr to try to study more :(  
> But yeah I actually had writer's block about this chapter for a looong time...like the conversational banter wasn't coming out right and I'm such a perfectionist; it was really annoying. But I hope you liked it and it was worth the wait!  
> Also if it's unclear, the groan is not only embarrassment but also arousal...sort of like that quote about Benedict Cumberbatch and how he has sensitive hair follicles...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, he was so beautiful, and an utter enigma too, another lovely mystery for Sherlock to figure out- a doctor, sworn to heal and protect and yet so quick to kill that cabbie for him that first case. It was dazzling and John never realized, thinking since the first day that he was some ordinary, predictable London man, run-down and living on an army pension. Oh, but he was not, and Sherlock had long since decided that no, he didn’t want to figure John out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that they're back together, this story will be told in both John's and Sherlock's perspectives. Sorry if it's confusing at all. I'll try to make it obvious when it shifts. 
> 
> Warnings for explicit wanking
> 
> Chapter title comes from The Scientist by Coldplay

The inside of the shower was a very nice and steamy place to roll thoughts around one’s head, which is exactly what Sherlock was doing whilst scrubbing out the chemicals in his hair.

He sighed. What had that been back there? Sitting perched upon the closed toilet lid while John putting hair-colour remover into his hair, and Sherlock had outright moaned?

_Oh god._

He finished rinsing out the product and closed his eyes, letting the hot water stream over his face in calming, steady little waterfalls. What was wrong with him? He should have never even asked- wait _,_ he _hadn’t_. He hadn’t even asked for help and yet, this was still all his fault. John was the one who had insisted that he knew how to do this, and he had, applying the stuff methodically and correctly, making this no more an intimate process than it would have been had he gone to a hairstylist. And Sherlock had just gone and bollixed it all up, making it John feel all awkward- by moaning all over the place, no less. But John, John had pushed it aside, ignored it as if it hadn’t happened at all, once he had checked to make sure that little escaped moan hadn’t been one of pain. _Sorry, am I hurting you?_ John had asked.

Far from it, in fact. Not many people knew it, but Sherlock had quite a sensitive scalp, which sometimes he hated to no avail. He couldn’t rid himself of it, and let’s just say that a little head massage was all it took sometimes to, uh, waken what he referred to as _transport_. But it had to happen now of all times? He was pretty sure John could read the signs of arousal pretty clearly- after all, he was a doctor, a good one at that, and he was a warm-blooded, healthy, naturally-sexual human male too; perhaps even more of one compared to Sherlock. He mentally cringed; he could have acted less…strange- not biting his lip and refusing to look at John. The worst part was that John had said that bit about them being friends and friends helping each other- like he had needed reassurance that that was all that they were, that this was making him doubt, doubt Sherlock’s intentions. Well, John already knew he was strange. Sherlock just hoped that John wouldn’t find it so weird that he would suddenly decide to pick up and move out or hate him forever or something of the sort. John wouldn’t just do that, would he? But he couldn’t know; he couldn’t figure it out right?

 

He remembered what John had first thought when he had discovered that Sherlock had been in the bathroom for an hour. He had thought Sherlock had been masturbating. Wanking. Pleasuring himself. Not that he had, but that wouldn’t have been weird, would it? Again, they were males and flat-mates, this was something that happened and no one ever talked about, right? But no, he hadn’t been, he had had a legitimate reason to be in the bathroom- putting in hair-dye remover, remember? But that was way before that awfully wanton-sounding moan that broke the silence…he looked down to where his fingertips were just itching to just stroke up his shaft.

He hadn’t touched himself like this in ages. He hadn’t had the time, simply put. Sherlock hadn’t just been away on some well-deserved vacation; there had been a mission and he had barely slept until he had fulfilled it and was able to come back. Come back home. Obviously, he had had no time to himself, well, no time for these sorts of things at least. It was all just transport, right? Not important. But he still had to take care of transport- too much neglect wasn’t good, was it? Something about prostate health and built-up sperm release which was what led to naturally-occurring erections…

 _Shut up._  

Sherlock would allow himself this…this little bit of pleasure, even if it killed him. It might kill him not to, actually- all the tales of prostate cancer being fought by this sort of thing. He thought back to John, his warm laugh and his cane _why does he still need it?_ and the comforting scent of him and the sensation of John’s fingers in his hair. _God,_ that had felt good. He tried to massage his own scalp with the shampoo lather in his palms. No, not the same.

He gave up and just relaxed, finally putting his hands where they wanted to be, gripping the base of his cock and stroking up towards the head where his foreskin had already retracted. He was leaking pre-come copiously, though the water from the showerhead was washing it away a bit. Sherlock adjusted the spray of the shower so that it wasn’t quite so direct. He would need something for lube, to make this even easier and not to prolong it any more than necessary. As if he wasn’t already panting for it since he hadn’t done this in so long…But some conditioner would do in a pinch.

He squirted some onto his palm before taking his length in hand. Sherlock stifled a guttural-sounding groan, biting his lip. He reached back up to rub at his nipples, pinching one of them until he almost cried out. _No,_ he must be quiet- what would John think, especially after what he had thought before? But it was not as if Sherlock had never heard him, John, doing the same. John had used to wank at least once or twice a week in the shower, perhaps more out of the shower, though Sherlock never witnessed any evidence. Just suspiciously longer showers some days and a rosy red blush on his cheeks that may or may not have been attributed to the warm steam. But once on a summer night he had heard a moan, and _oh god_ , had that stayed in his mind. The sound looped on repeat until he thought it might be ingrained in his dreams. He shook his head as if it would help him clear his thoughts, sending water droplets flying.

He had better get this over with. He could just fantasize, right? Sherlock might have been embarrassed to say that John had come into his mind so quickly. Well, they were flat-mates, and male ones at that- they were bound to see each other shirtless at some time or other. A year ago, but Sherlock remembered it well as if it was just hours ago.

 

An April rainstorm after dinner and wrapping up a case had drenched them; leaving Sherlock and John soaked and chilled to the bone, neither of them having the protection of a waterproof-coat to ward off the torrential rainfall. By the time they had reached the main street, they were so wet that no cabbies would take them for fear of mud tracked into their cab. Rain wasn’t uncommon in London, certainly not, but the rain was cold despite the recent warm weather of spring. What Sherlock wouldn’t have given for Mycroft’s umbrella…They had run down the streets; thankfully, they hadn’t been far from Baker Street. Fumbling with keys, they rushed up the stairs, shivering and dripping everywhere in their hurry. With water trickling from his hair trickling into his eyes, John had immediately begun stripping in their sitting room. Sherlock must have stared; John’s fingers flying over buttonholes and pulling his oxford off his shoulders were mesmerizing. He had worn a cotton vest underneath, though it was so wet that Sherlock could see the shape of his nipples through it. He was bashful and had looked away, John having never noticed, and Sherlock had unbuttoned his suit jacket and said something about hanging up the clothing in the bath over the tub so it could dry. John must have agreed, pulling his vest up over his head while Sherlock had tried to gape more or less discreetly.

He was gorgeous; of course he was so unashamed about his body. Slowly, he realized he should take off his own shirt; trying to casually pull off the aubergine dress shirt and keep his mind out of the gutter. He wanted to hide from John; yes, he lounged around in barely more than a pair of pajama bottoms and a dressing gown, and sometimes just a bed-sheet, but it was hard for him to be so _naked,_ to be literally and figuratively so vulnerable. And he thought himself so strange-looking; all long, pale limbs and jutting bones. Who could ever love him?

 

John had been so beautiful, and Sherlock, admittedly, was very attracted to him and had wanted to kiss him and make him take off the rest of his clothes. Maybe even more than that, he wanted to flee. He had no idea what to make of these feelings. To have made him _want_ something so badly, these feelings must have been dangerous.

Now were they supposed to continue divesting themselves of clothing, or did some rules of society and relationships dictate that they stop before Sherlock was made to take off his trousers and reveal his growing erection?

John had quickly mumbled something about going to get clean, dry clothes and then hanging up the wet ones, and Sherlock had quickly agreed for a good reason not to expose more of himself. They had headed off to separate bedrooms. John had taken his shower first, and Sherlock took that as an opportunity to touch himself where he ached.  Hurried and desperate for release in the limited time, all he had thought of was John, and he had come so hard that it had been a little frightening. He shivered to himself.

That night, he had lain awake in bed thinking, wondering what John was dreaming  just one storey above him.

 

John, _oh John,_ with his still military-taut muscles and defined pectorals _oh he wanted to outline those with his tongue_ and golden-tan, soft-looking skin and that starburst of a scar at his left shoulder. And those steady, strong hands prepared to handle a gun and patch him up and catch him always. What would those hands feel like on his body? What would they feel like touching his pale skin, and where it gave way to where he _needed,_ at the patches of rosy pink that covered his lips, his nipples, his prick? What would John’s fingertips feel like wrapped around his own? In his mouth, wrapped around his cock, wringing a shattering orgasm out of him?

He imagined those fingers tugging at the skin of his balls like he was doing now, stroking up his shaft, reaching back to touch his entrance. Sherlock moaned. He massaged around his pucker till he was relaxed, lubing up his finger with more conditioner before slowly pushing it, still palming himself. He was greedy, rocking back on the finger, and quickly he added one by one until he had three in him to the knuckle. He moved them around inside him blindly, searching for his prostate while still languidly stroking himself, his thumb brushing over his slit where a tiny pearl of pre-come had formed. _There!_ Sherlock felt a white spark of pleasure shoot through him as he massaged the gland. _Oh…_ He began to stroke faster, harder, needing his release desperately. He thought of John and John’s moan as he had touched himself. Had John looked at him _in that way_ after the rainstorm, or thought of him that summer night he had heard him masturbating?

Sherlock pretended he did, pretended that it was _his_ name that John would cry out, _his_ body John would mark as his own, hislips that John would kiss. _“Sherlock!”_ John would scream, his back arching as he reached climax, coming in thick spurts. Sherlock imagined those thick spurts landing on his chest, streaking him in John’s come. That final thought was when he finally broke, crashing over the precipice, his cock getting impossibly harder before he was coming and spattering his hand violently with semen.

“ _John,”_ Sherlock panted; his chest heaving and his thoughts still revolving around the man.

 

Oh, he was so beautiful, and an utter enigma too, another lovely mystery for Sherlock to figure out- a doctor, sworn to heal and protect and yet so quick to kill that cabbie for him that first case. It was dazzling and John never realized, thinking since the first day that he was some ordinary, predictable London man, run-down and living on an army pension. Oh, but he was not, and Sherlock had long since decided that no, he didn’t want to figure John out. He didn’t think he could, not entirely, at least. But now the problem was that John wasn’t an idiot- strange that _that_ was the problem, as most people were usually quite obtuse, but in this case, he couldn’t risk John finding out…John _had_ developed his own deductive skills, with and without Sherlock’s help.

John. “Three-Continents Watson”. Why would he ever give up what he had once earned that nickname for? Sherlock had no right to assume he would- after all, he may well be subjected to taunts and jeers and jokes at his expense. “Pouf” and “Queer” and maybe even “Faggot”. As if John hadn’t already had enough pain in his life? Yes, maybe he wouldn’t care what others said about him; yes, he had a lesbian older sister so he wasn’t prejudiced; yes, yes, yes, but he was _John._ You couldn’t infer anything about him.

But apparently he was as smooth with women as he was with men, or at least just with Sherlock, for he had carved a John-shaped cavity in Sherlock’s chest and stolen his heart like it was some treasure to be held in his hands. Sherlock had no doubt of it, this stolen heart, even less now that he was back and could revel in the presence of this brilliant man. But this was John, who had referred to himself as Sherlock’s “colleague” instead of even friend in front of Sebastian Wilkes, who had shouted out “I’m not his date!” to Billy, if he had turned down just those suggestions, who could tell how he might react if Sherlock told him?

But safely in the privacy of the shower stall where no one could hear him over the running water, he could admit it out loud. _“I love you, John Watson,”_ Sherlock whispered under his breath. The words felt like they belonged, tumbling out of his mouth as easily as the water down the bath drain.

 

\-------

He woke up the next morning, for a minute forgetting what a mess his thoughts had been. Just lying there, Sherlock was reluctant to get out of bed, not wanting to face John. Nor the world in general.

He wondered if it would be best for him to lay low for a while, just slowly letting himself be spotted in public as to smoothly integrate his presence back into society.

\-------

Apparently John had decided to act as if nothing had ever happened. His hair was back to normal and apparently, so was his libido. But Sherlock kept it hidden away and thank God they could live like this, because he had been so worried that it would have been awkward…apparently ignoring things like this was okay.

\-------

A week later, while John was reading the paper and Sherlock was debating whether or not to Google a solution to _“vile hair-colour remover smell in sink”_ , the doorbell rang. John looked up from the newspapers, his eyebrows saying something like _nope, not getting up_ towards the direction of the door.

Fine. Sherlock trekked down the stairs to open the door that connected 221B to the rest of the street, the doorbell, well the visitor, still insistently ringing. He threw open the door.

 

A man stood before him, his finger still pressed to the doorbell, ready to push it again.

A man.

Relatively stout, yes, _unmarried with no incentive to stay in shape_. Stout, but still with a lot of muscle, _physical labour._ Unarmed, _good. Not a danger._ The man was probably around his fifties; looking a bit haggard. _Worried. For what? Himself? Family? Job? Money?_ Worn-looking clothes, but cleaned regularly- _not a high salary in what he does; heavy lifting, perhaps? Lorry-driving?_

“You Sherlock Holmes?” he asked gruffly.

_East London accent. Probably read the newspapers then- how does he know I’m alive? It’s only been about a week. Has news gotten out? People have spotted me? John- has John written about it on his blog? Must remember to ask, to check. Maybe for the best?_

“Yes.” They shook hands. _Rough._ Fits with physical labour. _No particular scars, marks. Important?_

“Can I come in?” _Oh yes, sorry._

“Of course,” he said. “Up the stairs.” Sherlock motioned for him to go first. Safer, that way.

 

“This is Doctor John Watson.” Sherlock introduced them.

“Oh yes, the blogger.”

“Right,” John half-smiled.

“John, this is Mister…”

“Steven Harris.” He held out his hand for John to shake, and John took it.

“So…” John trailed off.

“Oh. You probably know I’ve got a case. Well, an investigation, more like.”

Sherlock and John both nodded, waiting for him to continue. Steven laughed uncomfortably.

 

“The big thing is- are you two blokes comfortable with pretending to be a couple?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay,” Sherlock said. “And you think there was something slipped into his drink that made him uncharacteristically violent that night?” he asked, turning to Steven, who put down his cup.
> 
> “I don’t know what else it could’ve been- he doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t smoke. He isn’t even those violent-types when he gets drunk!” He started to sound exasperated. And who wouldn’t, if their child was suddenly committing random acts of violence.
> 
> “And so you want us to investigate, yes?” John asked.

_“The big thing is- are you two blokes comfortable with pretending to be a couple?”_

Wait. Back the hell up.

_What._

_The._

_Hell._

He took a deep breath. Beside him, Sherlock looked about as taken aback as John felt.

Pretending to be gay?

Memories came rushing forward, like some damn floodgate had broken in his mind: sticky summer nights and insatiability and sudden spring rains and that damnable shirt clinging to Sherlock’s skin like nobody’s business. John snuck a glance over at his flatmate. God, he was gorgeous. But to pretend to be his boyfriend? Was that possible? Girlfriends weren’t exactly his “area”, John remembered, but this? Could he, John Watson, who very much had feelings for his friend, pretend and _only_ pretend that they were together?

It wasn’t like he had always admitted that he’d had these feelings for Sherlock. Not to himself, definitely not to other people. He felt like they might have been there for a while, but maybe he just hadn’t acknowledged them. After all, he had always insisted, to anyone who would listen, that he was completely and utterly heterosexual. But it was like these feelings, the emotions and want and temptation, had built up over time, over the bond of friendship; and now that he was finally back, John’s heart must have thought it possible for things to start happening. So much for false hope. All John knew was that he was confused. And what? They might have to _pose as a couple_?

Oh God.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Might you tell us why we would need to first, Mr. Harris?” he asked hesitantly.

_Oh yes, please._

“My son Shaun is…well, he’s gay. He’s gay and I’m not ashamed or anything of him, he’s still my son and all, but he’s gotten himself into a spot of trouble. Thing is, he goes to some gay nightclub down in London sometimes. So at first, I was like, he’s young, okay, as long as he’s safe, exercisin’ caution, fine, whatever, go ahead. He gets drunk sometimes. Yeah, that’s okay, not like I don’t drink on occasion. Gets home to his flat by cab, good. So not really worried about drunk drivin’ or road accidents. He goes out with friends for a few drinks, dancin’, clubbin’. Probably brings home people sometimes, whatever. He’s old enough.

“And he comes to visit me sometimes, right? At night, you know. He likes to check up on his ol’ man. And so one day, Shaun comes in late at night. I’m damn near sleepin’, but he wakes me up with all his bangin’ around on the door since he’d done forgot his set of keys. I let him in, and he starts mutterin’ and mumblin’ all over the place, going on and on about something ‘til I make out the words: “What’ve I done?” I didn’t know what he was talking ‘bout. “Dad, I done something bad,” I think he said to me. Then I look at him, really take a good look at him. His eyes are red and he’s all squinty, and he lies down on the sofa ‘cause he says he’s got a mighty headache. “I hurt someone,” and he sounded mighty sorry, I known it. He didn’t mean to, and he wouldn’t. And I know he’s not drunk, so what is it? I mean, he don’t look it. But his words are a bit slurred. I ask him what’s wrong with him. He groans, and says, “All I drank was soda.” So maybe his drink was spiked, right?

“Then a few days later, I hear about people gettin’ beat up near the club, and some robberies near there. I keep tellin’ him not to go down there. I personally think someone’s been slippin’ things into people’s drinks down at that club. Why would they do that though? It seems like it’d be so random, you know. Just random people’s drinks. Pretty uncontrollable, from what I think.”

“How long was this incident?” Sherlock asked.

“Two days since he came home that night, and the last incident on the news was six days ago.”

“Why haven’t you gone to the Met with this?”

“Thought I’d ask you about the problem before going to the police; see, I didn’t really know how they’d react, you know. Seeing as Shaun did actually rough someone up, though I still don’t know who.”

“Sorry, how old is your son exactly, Mr. Harris?” John finally got a word in.

“Twenty-one. He’s in uni.” Steven seemed vaguely proud.

“Right. We’ll need Shaun’s account of what happened. Is he available to meet up anytime soon?”

“Today’s Sunday, he can swing by tonight, I’ll bring him over. He won’t be able to stay too long though, school in the morning.” He gave John and Sherlock a small smile.

“Of course,” John said, nodding like he agreed. “Would you prefer to talk over dinner or after?”

\-------

“John, get the door,” said Sherlock, making a lazy motion of his hand and still reading some article on his laptop. John sighed, and of course, did what Sherlock bid him to.

Shaun rang the bell again, his father standing behind him.

Shaun Harris was a very ordinary looking man- golden curls, medium height but taller than his father, lean but not too remarkable body. Not dressed too outrageously or anything, tan-coloured trousers and a blue button-up shirt. Now John had nothing on Sherlock for his observational skills, but he was a doctor and he could tell when a person was exhausted. But he had a strange look in his eyes- _Fear? Apprehension? Curiosity?_

John stuck out his hand. “Doctor--”

“John Watson, yes. I’m Shaun Harris.” He looked him up and down, quite blatantly, before shaking John’s hand, holding onto it for a few seconds longer than necessary. Oh my god, did he just lick his lips?

So that’s what that strange look was.

“Uh, nice to meet you.” John cleared his throat, hoping that Sherlock would step in soon to stop this…whatever it was. Because while John wasn’t homophobic or anything of the sort (see in case: Harry and Clara), he was very nearly old enough to be this boy’s father, and he was a boy, really, at only 21. _If my teenage years had taken a different twist_ …he shook himself of the thought. “Mr. Harris,” he said, nodding at the older man.

“Ah, the son,” Sherlock swept in, saving him. “Sherlock Holmes.” They shook hands, but with none of the lingering Shaun had had with John. _Oh no._

 _You better stay_ _strictly professional, John._

“Okay. Take a seat on the sofa,” he told them, pulling up chairs from the table for himself and Sherlock. “I’ll go make tea.”

 

“We’ve heard the story from your father,” Sherlock said when John came back, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. “But a direct account would be best. Do try to be interesting.”

“Okay, have you heard of Verge in London?” For some reason, Steven said the word "verge" in an awful French accent.

 _“Verge?”_ John heard Sherlock mutter, his accent much better than Steven's.

“Well, it’s a club, down in London.”

“Yes, yes, you don’t need to be repetitive.”

John rolled his eyes, _Sherlock in typical interrogation-mode_. “Go on, Shaun.” He took a sip of tea.

Shaun smiled at him gratefully. “Well, two nights ago, I went there. I go there regularly with some mates from uni, you know, have a couple of drinks. It was getting late and one of my mates, in a bad way just out of a breakup, had been like nearly drowning himself in beer, so we sent him home with someone in a cab to make sure he didn’t pass out or try something stupid.”

He seemed very proud of himself. _Must have been his idea._ He seemed like a nice boy.

Shaun continued: “After a while, I decided I would leave after one more drink. I hadn’t drunk too much that night, and I was actually like pretty clear-headed. Another mate decided to leave with me, too, but asked me to wait till after he had a smoke. I don’t smoke myself, but I thought he was starting to take too long; I thought maybe, you know, he’s like completely pissed, something could’ve happened to him outside. I was waiting inside at the bar before since it was starting to drizzle a little bit and it was foggy, but I go out into the alleyway, expecting to see him just standing there, smoking his fag. But he’s not, he’s slumped down against the brick wall. It starts to get a bit hazy after this, like not entirely- certain details really stand out, but the whole thing’s like a blurry dream I’m trying to remember in the morning.

“I was panicking but picked him up, just thinking oh, he’s pissed, and he doesn’t live too far from me so I sling his arm around my shoulders and try to pick him up to throw him into a cab and take him home. My emotions were like all over the place; I remember being like irrationally scared that he’d completely collapse on me or something or like vomit on me. Thing is, he’s not a light sort of fellow, and it’s late but a couple people are walking by on the sideway as I simultaneously try to shuffle him down the street and find a cab. Either I bump into some bloke while trying to flag down a cabbie or my mate drunkenly swats at him, but the guy turns around.

Shaun paused to drink some of his tea. “He smelled like cheap whiskey, like stunk of it, I remember, and he was like huge and muscly and hairy. He starts like yelling at us for like nothing, I mean, we probably just bumped into him.  And here I am trying to explain our situation to a drunken guy who definitely isn’t listening and doesn’t care, but I definitely wanted to pick a fight that night. My mate just kind of sits there on the sidewalk, and I just remember that bloke smirking at us with a scary sort of look in his eyes before calling us “bloody poofs”. And yeah, I usually don’t care what other people think, but that night it just really got to me, you know? I got really angry. Next thing I knew, I punched him in the jaw. I can’t remember much of the fight later, but I think people dragged the guy away from me at some point; otherwise, I’d probably be dead.

“God, it was horrible. Yeah, I wanted to fight him then and there but normally, I’m that type. I don’t particularly like violence or fighting or anything, and I was drunk, but that’s not an excuse. I came home and I felt so sorry for the man even though I probably barely gave him a scratch- but I couldn’t even remember what had happened, really. I don’t even know what happened to my mate exactly, I called him the next morning and he didn’t seem to remember anything of the night before.” 

John has had his fair share of pub brawls and drunken fights but this? Unless this kid suddenly turned into a violent, punch-throwing drunk after a few drinks, it seemed very unlike him.

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “And you think there was something slipped into his drink that made him uncharacteristically violent that night?” he asked, turning to Steven, who put down his cup.

“I don’t know what else it could’ve been- he doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t smoke. He isn’t even those violent-types when he gets drunk!” He started to sound exasperated.  And who wouldn’t, if their child was suddenly committing random acts of violence.

“And so you want us to investigate, yes?” John asked. Steven nodded. And Shaun was staring at him again. _But why do we need to pretend--_

“But why would we need to go in as a couple?” Sherlock asked, taking the words right out of John’s mouth.

“You’ll have an excuse to stay closely together or to defend each other,” Steven answered. John hadn’t thought of that. “And Verge _is_ a gay club. A gay couple will easily blend in.”

Suddenly, Shaun looked excited. “Or, what if John, er, Doctor Watson, goes in with me? I could show him the exact place and the bar and everything.”

“Too big of a chance that someone would recognize you- maybe even the person that slipped you something. Plus, you’re a regular, you might get roped into conversation with familiar faces, and get distracted from the investigation,” Sherlock rationalized.

Shaun’s face fell slightly.

“And you won’t know what to look for either,” Steven said. “Just let these men do their work, Shaun.”

“Alright, we’ll take the case,” Sherlock said dramatically. As if just sitting through both their explanations didn’t already mean he was going to take it.

“You were there on a Friday night, correct?” Shaun nodded. “Normally busy- but should we wait till a busy day to go in?” John asked, turning to Sherlock.

“Perhaps both, we should get a good look around while not many people are there, and then check it out again while it’s busy.”

“It’s closed Tuesdays,” Shaun piped up. He sounded so eager to help. John smiled.

“Good to know,” John said.

 “Right. Uh, here’s my mobile, call if you find anything. You’ve got my dad’s number, too.” He scratched out the numbers on a scrap of paper he dug out from his trouser pocket and handed it to John. Shaun went so far as to wink at him.

_Um._

Of course, Sherlock saw it. “You said you needed to get home early- school in the morning?” Sherlock reminded Shaun, getting to his feet. He and John showed them to the door.

“Oh yeah,” Shaun said reluctantly. “Well, thank you both.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.” Steven added.

Sherlock merely nodded, watching them walk down the stairs before closing the door.

 

“You think he was really slipped something?” John asked Sherlock, sitting down again with his cup of tea.

“Quite plausible in a busy club scene. The question is, what was the point of it?” Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out his thoughts. “Cases like these are usually because of date-rape drugs, but this was nothing of the sort. He wasn’t raped, he wasn’t kidnapped, he wasn’t taken advantage of. He became more violent and scared, his emotions were heightened. Hazy memory could be due to the alcohol, with the added effect of the suspected drug.  He seemed really tired, didn’t he, John?”

John nodded. “And his head must have been pounding. He kept rubbing at his temples and clenching his fists every so often.”

“Have you heard of this club? Or any other incidents in that area that Steven mentioned?”

“Nothing particularly. I think there was a robbery, but that was a while ago.”

“Why would someone slip him something to make him more violent? According to his account, it was only like him wanting to pick a fight- not like uncontrollable rage or anything, but what would someone want with that?”

“I have no idea, but are there drugs that do that? Make people more violent?”

“Perhaps. I’ll have to do some research,” Sherlock said, reaching for his laptop.

“When should we take a visit to Verge?”

“Monday night should be fairly un-crowded. I’ll also do some research on the club, see what type of clientele they cater to, age-wise. We’ll need to be incognito.”

 _And act as a couple_ , John added mentally.

“Are you okay, John?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Why?”

“Shaun was staring at you very strangely and I could tell that you were uncomfortable. And I know that I often have no perception with boundaries of human relationships, but are you okay with us pretending to be a gay couple for the case?”

What could he say to that? _1)_ _No, I don’t feel comfortable at all, you dolt. 2) No, I’m fine. It’s all fine; I don’t have a problem with it. 3) Do we_ have to _pretend_? _What if I want to, for real? 4) I’m so confused and my feelings are all over the place and why can’t we just be normal flatmates?_

He settled for a variation on option number 2. “No, it’s fine. It’s for the case.”

_Besides, everyone we know already thinks we’re together anyways._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in forever! :/  
> I was a bit stupid for not figuring out the entire plot before beginning to write, but now I've basically figured it all out so here you go!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gaped at him, his fork falling to the dinner plate, forgotten. Damn. 
> 
> Sherlock was wearing black leather trousers that clung to his arse and a silky green V-neck shirt, the fabric sheer and leaving little to the imagination.  
> God, his arse—John. Stop.  
> He had glitter in his hair. Glitter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the verge...

A day had passed since Mr. Harris and his son Shaun had visited 221B. Sherlock was fiddling with his violin, still mulling over the details in his mind. They would be going to visit Verge tonight, disguised as a couple and everything.

 _Verge._ Sherlock remembered Steven Harris’s strange French accent on the club’s name. But it meant something in English too.  _A point beyond which something happens. A boundary._ He turned on his laptop and looked it up in French.

 Oh.  _Penis. Stick. Rod._ Well, that was rather fitting for a gay nightclub, wasn’t it?

 _What could this case entail?_  Sherlock thought, closing the screen of his laptop and returning to his violin. He tried not to think of how Vergewas so aptly named as he put down his bow, plucking out a simple melody in pizzicato. He lost himself in the improvised music for a few seconds, letting the question turn itself over and over in his mind as his fingers flew up and down the strings.

Was it a drug-smuggling ring at the club Shaun had been to? A botched operation with something like Roofies slipped into his drink, that hadn’t mixed the way it was supposed to with alcohol? Whatever it was had made him violent, and then forgetful the day after. Symptoms? Headaches. Heightened emotions.  Both things that were signs of many different types of drugs. So that didn’t tell him much, but hopefully they would find out more when they investigated tonight.

\-------

 Sherlock could hear John coming up the stairs, and he opened the door before John could even get his keys out. “Get dressed, John. I’ve laid out some clothes on your bed.”

“You’ve picked out my clothes?” John asked sceptically.  Sherlock raised an eyebrow, prompting him into remembering. “Oh, right. Verge.” Sherlock was going to correct him on the pronunciation, and then stopped.

“Do keep up, John. Go get dressed, and I’ll make you something to eat. Take a shower if you need.” He left, heading into the kitchen before John could reply.

Now, what did they have on hand?

\-------

Sherlock put together a smorgasbord of leftovers he had found in the fridge: Chinese takeaway, curry, and beans and toast. It was the best he could do at the time, considering. He was just setting down the bowl of beans from the microwave when John came out of the shower. Sherlock looked up.

John was dressed in the outfit Sherlock had picked out; tight black jeans and a close-fitting silvery t-shirt, cut perfectly to show off his muscular biceps. “Um, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Am I not too old for this kind of thing?” John fiddled with the shirt. “Why can’t I wear something else?”

“Nonsense. Now, eat up. We’ll be leaving soon,” Sherlock put down a plate in front of him. “Try to get comfortable in those clothes. You look like a child that’s been forced to wear an itchy jumper for a Christmas portrait.” He grabbed a fork and began portioning out rice and curry onto his plate.

“You’re eating too, right?”

“Of course,” Sherlock answered slowly, like he was talking to a small child. He motioned to his place setting, like  _duh._ Sherlock grabbed the takeaway container and dumped some noodles unceremoniously on his plate. “We might have to dance and run around, and I’d advise you not to drink basically anything later at Verge. Who knows what could be slipped into your beer? Here, have some toast.”

John took the proffered piece. “Are you feeling okay? You seem a little…off.” 

“Anticipation, John! I am just brimming with curiosity!” Sherlock jumped into the air.  _Jumped._  John stared at him.

“Are you--?”

“I’m absolutely fabulous, John!” Without another word, Sherlock ran into his bedroom to go change.

John sat at the kitchen table, still chewing.

\-------

Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, doing a little turn for John.

John gaped at him, his fork falling to the dinner plate, forgotten.  _Damn._  

Sherlock was wearing black leather trousers that clung to his arse and a silky green V-neck shirt, the fabric sheer and leaving little to the imagination. God, his arse— _John. Stop._ He had glitter in his hair. Glitter? 

John could see the tops of Sherlock’s hipbones above the low-slung waist of his trousers and the little strip of skin where his t-shirt rode up. Sherlock stepped closer, and John could see a little gleam of silver in his ear. “Earrings,” he stated, waiting for clarification.

Sherlock looked at him like,  _Why ever not?_ “You’ve got to play the part  _and_ dress the part,” he answered, reaching up to wiggle the three silver rings in his left ear.

“And what part exactly is that?”

 

They went over their stories before leaving.

Sherlock was to be Wes Turner and John to be Kyle Brown. “Wes” was a 30 year-old journalism photographer and “Kyle” was a 35 year-old accountant.

“Why do I get the boring job?” John asked, slightly miffed but mostly uncomfortable about his clothes. He threw his hands up in the air in frustration, causing the t-shirt to ride up yet again. John tugged the shirt down for about the thirtieth time, wishing once again that they didn’t have to do this.

“Well, do you look like a photographer?” Sherlock called out, heading into the bathroom with a small bag. He left the door open, and John followed him.

“Maybe in these clothes,” John said. “You never know.”

Sherlock took out a tube of pink lip gloss, twisting it open. “You don’t have that…sort of  _air_ about you, I suppose.”

“But I have the air of an  _accountant_?” John asked, slightly offended. Sherlock made an offhanded gesture, swiping the lip gloss wand against his lips and painting a stroke on.

John watched in fascination, silent as Sherlock put on product after product: tinted face cream, some sort of whitish powder that made his skin look dewy and soft, dark stuff that went into the contours of his cheekbones, and some more glitter. Finally, he pulled out a black pencil, leaning in close to the mirror to outline his eyes. Sherlock turned towards him. The sharp black kohl brought out his bright blue-green eyes and made them even more piercing. Sultry, even. “What do you think?”

He smirked when John fumbled for an answer. Complete with the earrings and the glitter and those damn leather pants, Sherlock looked absolutely stunningand there was no denying it. The makeup showed off his best features, which was basically all of them, highlighting his high cheekbones and strong jaw-line, and giving a rosy colour to his pouty lips.

“Oh God, I’m going to look like some fucking old perv next to you in this ridiculous shirt,” John grumbled. Sherlock laughed. “Hey wait, if Kyle, I mean,  _I_ am supposed to be an accountant, why couldn’t I have just worn a suit?”

Sherlock said nothing, and went into the sitting room to put on his boots and throw on a leather jacket. He looked up as John came into the room behind him. “Don’t forget your gun. I made sure you’d have enough room to tuck it into your waistband. We’ll get it past the bouncers if you hide it near your stomach with some padding.” Sherlock handed him a rolled up piece of fabric. John raised an eyebrow. “Yes, of course this is the best way for you to smuggle a gun in. Don’t be silly, John.”

“Oh, so now I have to be pudgy too.” John sighed.  _Goddamnit._

 _"_ Just look at it like this: if you don’t look too good, you won’t get hit on and we won’t waste time trying to deal with people when we should be investigating.” Sherlock waited patiently as John stripped off the shirt, and then handed him the bit of fabric. He had attached a piece of Velcro to it so that it would stay on, sort of like a pouch. John put the gun in between the folds of fabric, and smoothed it out so that it lay as flat as possible.

“Then explain your choice of outfit,” John shot back, reaching behind him to attach the two pieces of Velcro together so that the “fat pouch” would stay on. Sherlock pushed away his struggling hands and fixed it himself.

“I’m the photographer, remember? It’s supposed to explain why I’m bringing in this camera,” and here Sherlock held a camera they had gotten for an old case up, “with us, with hopefully no questions, so that we can get pictures of the surroundings and of any possible evidence.”

“And the camera on your mobile wasn’t good enough?” John asked, pulling on his shirt again.

“The mobile could look suspicious if I’m going to be taking pictures of random things.” Sherlock said. The _duh_  was implied, and yet such a normal, Sherlockian look seemed out of place on his makeup-caked face.

“You could just pretend you’re drunk-texting pictures or something, you know. People do that.” John tugged his shirt over the bunched-up fabric so that it lay straight over the fat pouch, and brushed some imaginary lint off of his shoulders.

“ _Or,_ I could be a photographer scoping out Verge, which means we get in for less or even free, because they think we’ll be using it as a possible photo shoot location or doing a feature on it. And they won’t become suspicious when I take a picture of say, the ceiling.”

“Right,” John said, like he agreed.  He still thought this was a very far-fetched idea, and this wasn’t even accounting for the fact that Wes and Kyle were to be a couple. A gay couple.  _Fuck._  And John was reluctant to ask, but they’d have to get to this part eventually. “Okay, so how long have Wes and Kyle been together? Er, how long have  _we_ been together?”

“A few months? That way it won’t seem weird if we don’t know a few details about each other’s stories or something. Not that I’m anticipating too much questioning from the patrons, but it’s best to be prepared.” Sherlock handed John his jacket. “Now let’s go.”

\-------

The cab ride was charged with the anticipation. They were mostly silent, Sherlock offering up tidbits of advice since he knew John was very nervous. Suddenly, John felt Sherlock’s hand on his. He turned sideways and looked at him, and then down at their hands. John slipped his fingers in between Sherlock’s, willing his palms not to be sweaty and for his hand not to be clammy and for his heartbeat to slow down. They held hands for the rest of the ride there, John trying desperately to slip into Kyle’s mind frame. How did one think like an accountant, anyways?

\--------

They got in with no problem, Sherlock flashing the bouncer his badge and holding up his camera. There had been a long line waiting to get into the place, and once John was inside, he could see that it was full of people. The dance floor was in the middle, and the rest of the club was separated by the well-stocked bar, with seating in the far back for more privacy. 

“Poke around a bit. Meet me back here in ten,” Sherlock said, clutching his camera and snapping a photo of the DJ in the far corner.

John left him and wandered around, bumping into people all over the place and having to apologize every second. He was surprised there were actually so many straight couples here; since Verge was a gay nightclub, he had thought it would be well, gays and lesbian couples, but there were many more women and men dancing together on the floor than he had expected.

This time, a man bumped into him, sloshing his beer all over John’s front. “Oh shit! I’m so sorry!” He must have been in his twenties, dressed simply in a black t-shirt and bright pink trousers.

“It’s alright,” John said. He looked around for something to mop up the spill with, and grabbed the napkin container off of a table.

“Here, let me.” Before John could refuse, the man had grabbed some napkins and started dabbing at his wet t-shirt. It seemed like he was getting in a good grope of his biceps as well.

When he said, “Nice arms,” the thought was confirmed.  _Damnit._

“Er, thanks?” John tried to smile. “I like your trousers.” Would Kyle like pink?

“You’re so cute!” the man gushed, squeezing his arm again.

John had never been called cute before. Kyle might have. He bit his lip. “So are you.” He hoped that was at the right reply. At this rate, John would never get the chance to explore Verge and make sure there wasn’t a drug-smuggling in the back alley or something.

“Oh wow. I’m here with some friends actually, but I’d love your number.” The man winked saucily.

“Um. I should have started with this. I’m here with my boyfriend,” John said, praying that that would be enough for the man to stop flirting with him.

“Do you want a third?”

John’s eyes widened. This was getting too weird for him to try to stay in character. “Oh, look there he is,” John interjected, gesturing to nowhere in particular across the room. “Bye!” he called, pushing through the crowd to escape.

 

Sherlock was near the entrance waiting when John got there. He sniffed, steering him towards the bar with his hand against on the small of John’s back. “We’re going to order drinks, but don’t actually drink anything.”

“So…you’re going to spill it?”

“Yes, maybe a little on the front of my shirt so that it smells like I’ve been drinking. I’ve got bottles of water in my camera bag if we actually do become dehydrated.” They had reached the bar after pushing through throngs of people, and Sherlock had to shout over the music. “Bartender! Scotch and…” he turned to John as if it really mattered what they’d be “drinking”.

“Stella,” John yelled back.

“A pint of Stella, please.” Sherlock added to the order. “Thank you.”

They took a seat at the bar, leaning close so that they could hear each other. “Have you noticed anything strange?”

“Besides some questionable sexual happenings in the bathrooms, nothing.” John laughed. “Now, who spilled an entire keg down the front of your shirt?” Sherlock asked. 

“I don’t even know his name, but he bumped into me, flirted, and then sort of asked me if we wanted a third.” At Sherlock’s blank stare, John clarified, “Like a threesome.”

“And you said?” Sherlock prompted.

“Nothing! I said nothing. I pretended you were somewhere behind me and ran off.”

“You should have kept flirting and seen if he had any information. Focus,  _Kyle._ ” Sherlock emphasized John’s alias for the night.

“How can I fucking focus with this loud music and the fact that all I can think about it how this is our first case in years?” John buried his head in his hands.

There, it was finally out in the open now.

 

“John, if you didn’t feel comfortable acting as a gay couple, you should have told me not to take the case.”

“Maybe I just—”

“Shh.”

And without another word, Sherlock leaned in, pressing his lips against John’s.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to my beta AnotherFangirlHere :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tuned all of that out, tuned out everything in the background, everything that was not Sherlock. 
> 
> Kisses and angst.

Somehow, it was a complete surprise. But something like instinct kicked in, something clicked that they should be kissing. Sherlock kissing John and John kissing him back, here in this nightclub, with the lights flashing and the music blaring and the people all around them. Of course, John tuned all of that out, tuned out everything in the background, everything that was not Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s lips were soft and his mouth was warm against his. He smelled of some foreign cologne, probably purchased just for this disguise, something musky yet fruity, a complexly-layered smell that took a bit of effort for John’s brain to wrap around. It was like delicious smoke, if that made any sense. The scent was intoxicating, and it made him want to bury his nose in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and just inhale.  
John pulled him closer to kiss him again, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, but his fingers accidentally hit the three rings in the side of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock pulled back in surprise, an unreadable look on his face.  
Instantly, the atmosphere had changed.

John looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide, and without another word, turned tail and fled. 

\-------

Sherlock sat there for a few minutes, confused and torn about chasing after John. The Stella he had ordered for John sat, still untouched, on the counter, and Sherlock watched as a drop of condensation rolled down the side of the pint glass and dripped onto the table. 

He did another walk-through of the club- boring, ordinary people and the music too loud- and eventually found a little alley off the side exit. The door was, unsurprisingly, not alarmed, as the alley probably was frequently used by employees for smoke breaks. He had lit a cigarette as well, in case he was discovered and would need an excuse to be out here, all alone.  
Sherlock took a long drag on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds. He listened to the sounds of the cars driving by, smoking absentmindedly and playing with the fake earrings in his ears. John would’ve knocked the cigarette out of his hands, would have scolded him, would have told him that he really should treat his body a bit better.  
But John wasn’t here, was he?

Sherlock threw his cigarette down in a burst of anger and stomped on it for good measure, watching as a tendril of smoke curled up from the pieces. He pulled out his magnifying glass and tried to focus and look for something useful, peering at the ground, which was littered with cigarette butts (now including his own) and some bits of debris near the skip.  
The whole alley smelled like smoke and alcohol and vomit. Ugh. There were bottle caps and the glass that was likely from smashed bottles. Sherlock stepped closer to the brick walls lining the alley, spotting a snagged piece of fabric and some spots of blood on the bricks behind the skip. Though it had dried already, the pattern indicated that it had dripped towards the ground, now red-brown and flaky. A couple of days old, then. Had someone, perhaps drunkenly, fell and gotten scraped against the wall? A bar brawl taken out into the alley?  
Sherlock recalled Shaun’s recount of that night: he had come out and found his friend, slumped against the wall. His friend’s blood then? Maybe he had grazed his arm against the brick? Stumbled into the wall drunkenly? Bumped his head? There wasn’t a lot of evidence, but Sherlock took out a little baggie and scraped some of the dried blood into it and picked up the little scrap of fabric, putting the sealed evidence into the pocket of his jacket. Maybe something would show up when he ran some tests in the lab tomorrow.  
“It’s most likely not Shaun’s blood. Shaun said he only drank a soda, but he still could have been given something unknowingly. A little pill in his drink, or even strong alcohol put into his soda. As for his friend, we don’t know if he was slipped something. From Shaun’s account, he was just very, very drunk, and the friend didn’t experience any of the violent tendencies or personality changes that Shaun did. We’ll have to speak to the friend to see if he remembers anything more about that night.” 

Sherlock looked up to realize he had been speaking aloud, his voice still echoing in his ears. It was a habit he couldn’t work to break. Once John had showed up, he no longer had reason to keep all his thoughts to himself. Deductions sounded better out loud, anyway, especially when they were met with praise from an admiring audience.  
Well, he wouldn’t have that anymore, would he? John would leave him now, might be leaving him at this very second.  
He imagined John packing his bags, taking all of his things away from the flat, stripping bits of his personality away from 221B and along with it, bits of Sherlock.  
Oh God, why had he done it? Why had he gone and mucked it all up, right after they were getting back into the swing of things? Why had he kissed him?  
Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, the edges of his pocket magnifying glass digging into his hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid. John didn’t want to be kissed. He must have been repulsed; disgusted by Sherlock so much that he had run out of the club. He wasn’t gay, he had repeated so many times, but did Sherlock ever listen?  
\------- 

John was already in his room when Sherlock got back at half past 2. Sherlock hung up his coat. An empty cup sat in the sink, traces of tea still in it. On the way to his room, he paused at the foot of the stairs. Sherlock could feel the unspoken words caught in his throat and they made him stop, his hand clutching the stair-rail. But John was probably asleep. 

\-------

John was not asleep. 

He had hailed a cab back to Baker Street and gone up to his room, stripping off the silver shirt- which while it had simply been too short and clingy for his liking before- now felt suffocating.  
Surprisingly, the flat was warm, even without his shirt, and so he sat on the edge of his bed, too engrossed in his thoughts to change his clothing, his mind running over and over the kiss like a looped film.  
It had felt so natural, so obvious that that would have been their natural progression of events. And Sherlock had looked so damn good tonight at the club, otherworldly with his sharp cheekbones and sultry eyes and glitter- and those leather trousers that had made it exceptionally difficult to remember that they were there for a case. Kissing him had felt like all the pieces had finally come together, and it had all shattered the very moment he had run out. “Focus, Kyle”, Sherlock had told him. So had the kiss meant nothing to him? Just a ruse to keep John in character for their gay couple charade? He was just playing “the game”, wasn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I AM SO SORRY ABANDONING THIS FIC FEELS LIKE I ABANDONED MY CHILD  
> you can all hate on me because i haven't posted in sooooo long- mostly because i didn't have time, but also because i wasn't really clear on how i wanted the plot-line to go...
> 
> So in the spirit of National Novel Writing Month (I'm not actually participating, what with school going on, but I'll use it as an excuse to make myself write more), I'm challenging myself to post a chapter each week. This was a spur-of-the-moment decision, so this chapter is pretty short and un-beta-ed.  
> If you have been paying attention, you'll notice that I HAD posted the 12th and 13th chapter, but I took them down because I didn't like where they were going and they're now in revision. 
> 
> Any comments would be lovely and very appreciated! If you have stayed on reading for however long I have made you all wait for this installment, I hope you think it's worth it and will keep reading! Love you lots :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had once again enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that came with hearing his deductions, going undercover, simply being next to him when he was elbows-deep in a new case. After all, it wasn’t Sherlock who had suggested they go undercover as a couple, it had been Steven Harris. And who was John to have taken advantage of that feigned moment?

John woke up the next morning, blearily forgetting, for a moment, what had passed the night before. And then it hit him like a freight train- memories rushing back as he breathed in slowly, trying to combat the rising nausea he felt.

It was _his_ fault, wasn’t it? _He_ had kissed Sherlock back, _he_ had been longing for it in fact- but _he_ had run out of the club. _He_ had forgotten that they had been on a case, their first case in many years. _He_ had once again enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that came with hearing his deductions, going undercover, simply being next to him when he was elbows-deep in a new case. After all, it wasn’t Sherlock who had suggested they go undercover as a couple, it had been Steven Harris. And who was John to have taken advantage of that feigned moment?

 

Sherlock had made it clear he didn’t want to be anything more than friends, had made it clear since they had first sat down at Angelo’s.

 

It wasn’t his “ _area”_ , and John should have respected that. He probably felt alienated from John now, his innocence taken or something like that. The point was, he just wanted to be friends and John...John didn’t feel the same way.

 

\-------

 

Sherlock had decided that he would make John a cup of tea.

It would be a symbol of apology, something that would hopefully make him remember all that they had experienced through their years together, something to make him stay. A plea.

 

He grabbed two tea bags, plopping them in their respective mugs and turning on the electric kettle.

 

He wouldn’t leave, would he?

That question had turned over and over in Sherlock’s mind the night before, and he had not even attempted sleep, trying to immerse himself in the case and take his mind off what had happened. He had gotten as far as taking pictures of the evidence he had found last night, and putting up the photos of the club and Post-it notes with Shaun and Steven’s information, but he had ended up staring blankly up at the evidence-covered wall above the sofa.

 

Sherlock made the tea somewhat mechanically, still lost in thought as he poured out the hot water and got out the cream and sugar. He could hear John slowly waking up, puttering around in his room, likely wrapping a dressing gown around himself before coming downstairs. The tea was finished, and he left the cup on the counter, taking his own and sitting down at the table. Sherlock could hear John’s footsteps on the stairs, then down the hallway to the bathroom.

 

“Morning,” he said, not looking up from the newspapers. He held up his cup of tea, and John saw it, walking over to the counter to discover the one that Sherlock had also made for him.

 

“Oh. Thanks.” John sat down at the table, sipping carefully.

 

Sherlock waved him off like it was nothing, like him making tea, especially for others, was an everyday occurrence.

 

“I see you’ve put up all the evidence,” John said, referring to the wall in the sitting room.

 

“As usual. I...went out into the alleyway next to the club, the one that Shaun had mentioned. Found some spots of dried blood and a scrap of fabric caught on the skip.”

 

“So...to the lab?” John confirmed, putting down his mug and getting up.

 

Sherlock paused. “Yes,” he answered tersely. So they weren’t going to talk about what had happened? Maybe that was for the best...

 

“You want some eggs?” John asked, walking over to the fridge.

“No thanks.”

So the mutual, unspoken decision seemed to be to return to their normal way of things, the domesticity of everyday life balanced with the high excitement of new cases. And as always, Sherlock would refuse the food, but eventually, with some pleading from John, eat it anyways.

 

\-------

 

They were about to leave when Sherlock remembered something.

 

“I’ll have to test the dried blood and run the fabric through a couple of tests to determine if it belonged to Shaun or his friend. We’ll try to see Steven and Shaun tonight, and if we find anything, we can tell them. If Shaun has remembered anything new, it could be useful,” Sherlock said. “Could you go down to the Yard and see if Lestrade knows anything about that club?” he asked, walking down the stairs and pulling on his gloves.

 

“Would the Homicide department even know anything about the random acts of violence?” John added, following him and shrugging on his jacket.

 

“Well, it _could_ escalate to murder, or be the signs of something much bigger. It would be useful for the Yard to be aware of these incidents before it reaches that point.”

 

He hailed a cab for John and then another for himself.

 

\-------

 

Sherlock sat in front of a microscope. He scraped some of the dried blood onto a glass slide, hoping to do some DNA tests to see if it matched Shaun’s, or contained any evidence of drugs. They’d need a sample of Shaun’s blood, or at least some of his medical history to find the match.

 

His phone _ping_ edwith a text, most likely from John.

Sherlock got up, stretching his legs, and walked across the room to where his coat hung. He reached into the pocket, pulling out his phone to check the message.

 

_< < Greg has heard about the club and its recent incidents, but the Yard don’t have any official case files on it, and they didn’t think that the club itself is particularly involved. >>_

 

Sherlock typed back, **_< < Does he know anything additional? >>_**

 

_< < No. But he thinks he knows someone that works there. >>_

 

Lestrade knew someone that worked at Verge? That could be useful...if they were cooperative, Sherlock and John could do their deep investigation of the club without alerting anyone to it. Go back to the club, tail some patrons, and ask a few questions.

 

**_< < Should we question him? >>_ **

 

_< < Official or unofficial approach? >>_

 

**_< < Depends on who Lestrade knows. >>_ **

 

The text went unreplied for a few minutes, and Sherlock returned to the lab bench, peering down at the blood sample. Something didn’t look right...

 

_< <He says he knows one of the bartenders. >>_

 

**_< < We’ll go tomorrow night and question him then. Official, but discreet. >>_ **

**_< < Ask Lestrade to notify him. >>_ **

 

Sherlock looked closer at the slide. There was something extra in the blood sample, some complicated chemical mixed in with the blood proteins. What was it? Was it the drug that Steven was sure his son had been slipped?

 

This blood had been found in the alley, which Shaun had been to, so they’d have to get Shaun tested as well, and his friend brought in, to see if this was a sample of either of their blood. It could have been anyone’s actually, knowing that the club was pretty popular and open so often.

 

They could go back and use luminol to test for more blood in the alley, but he wasn’t sure what that would help them find.

 

This basically expanded their pool of possible suspects and victims to anyone who had ever visited the club and its side alley. They had no way of knowing exactly whose blood it was without testing every person. All they could do was check if it was Shaun’s. If it wasn’t, they’d have to see if the club had a list of patrons, which most likely they didn’t, because even though there was a bouncer, it wasn’t all that exclusive.

 

_< < He said he’ll give his friend a heads-up. >>_

 

Maybe he should go down to the Yard and go through their databases on these cases of violence near the club, maybe there had been patterns in the victims who had been the ones drugged? The incidents had all stayed in generally the same area, but time-wise, they were spaced apart enough so that the occasional brawl could have just been attributed to pure inebriation. There wasn’t nearly enough evidence to narrow it down.

 

**_< < Might have found something. Come to Bart’s ASAP. >>_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is another chapter that I had originally posted but took down to rewrite and revise. I'm thinking that I'm probably being super confusing about this fic, so I would advise on going back and re-reading if you're confused about the sequence of events, or of course, ask questions or make comments for me to answer!
> 
> I tried very hard to get this in on Saturday, but currently, it is 1:33am on Sunday...sorry guys, I fell asleep earlier! :/  
> This is a deadline I keep narrowly missing, so I haven't even been able to email my chapters to my beta (sorry dear, if you're reading this), but hopefully you guys appreciate that I'm attempting to update more often. Once again, comments are super lovely and are like cookies to the hungry writer :) Love you all!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were so much to each other; well, at least, Sherlock meant so much to John...It was clear he wasn’t going to get over him easily if he ever left- how he had fared over Sherlock “death” had shown that very clearly and very painfully. So did he want to take the risk to pursue something more?

Admittedly, he had been thrown off by the cup of tea. It had sat there, rather incongruously, on the countertop, tendrils of steam curling out from the cup. An apology beverage? So Sherlock _did_ regret last night...but did John regret it?

 

The kiss would undoubtedly change their relationship, but maybe that was what he wanted. He knew he felt something more for Sherlock, had felt it for quite some time now; _hell,_ he’d even accidentally said, “ _I_ _love_ _you_ ” once, simply standing before his gravestone. That felt like forever ago looking back now. Suddenly he felt incredibly old, too old to still be confused about what he wanted, what his heart wanted. He wanted to laugh at himself- how had he gotten into this whole mess? All this because of a case in a gay nightclub...John thought back to the nightclub.

Why had it seemed so weird? Amongst all the strangeness of the glitter and the writhing bodies (he really had not gone clubbing since uni), there had been something more. It hadn’t occurred to him until now really; it was something unnamable, something he couldn’t quite put her finger on. Had something been familiar? He had thought there had been nothing familiar at Verge but Sherlock...and now, now that kiss had thrown him off. Why was he so reluctant to try for something more? Was he so afraid that he would lose Sherlock as a friend? A flatmate? A companion? So this was the moment, wasn’t it? This was yet another moment of realization of just how deeply his feelings for Sherlock were rooted. They were so much to each other; well, at least, Sherlock meant so much to John...It was clear he wasn’t going to get over him easily if he ever left- how he had fared over Sherlock “death” had shown that very clearly and very painfully. So did he want to take the risk to pursue something more?

 

That question stayed on his mind all day, up until he walked into Greg’s office.

 

“John!” Greg exclaimed, sounding extremely surprised even though John had notified him via text that he would be coming to research the case. He made a move like he was going to get up, and then seemed to decide against it. “Oh, sit down!” he said quickly, suddenly uncharacteristically polite and awkward.

 

He hadn’t seemed so _strange_ last time, though perhaps it was because Sherlock had been there, the main focus. He supposed that his easygoing relationship with Greg wasn’t going to be instantaneously repaired just because Sherlock was back, but hey, he could hope, couldn’t he? Right now, it was just another reminder that things would not and probably _could not_ go back to the way they were before.

 

“ _Verge_?” Greg asked, somewhat incredulously. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it...I’m not even going to ask why the two of you were...”

 

“No, no...we’re just... _we’re on a case_ , Greg!” John said, exasperated. He almost threw his hands up in frustration. Especially after last night, he really did not know how to deal with insinuations about their relationship. He certainly couldn’t insist he wasn’t gay anymore, could he? John pushed on anyway: “Have you got any files on the place? We’re looking into ‘random’ acts of violence in the area. They might be connected; client even thinks drugs being slipped into drinks have been the cause.”

 

“Hmm, I think we’ve heard about a few fights, small robberies...nothing big enough to make me suspect that the incidents would have been connected or anything, especially by drugs.”

 

“Sherlock and I went in yesterday night--”

 

“You went in?” Greg chuckled. “God, did you have to dress up--”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Haven’t worn something that skin-tight since the uni days. And the glitter, glitter everywhere...” John laughed, remembering how uncomfortable it had been. He was probably a bit old to  be clubbing- God, especially stood next to Sherlock, who was just _absolutely fucking_ _gorg_ \-- “Uh, Sherlock’s in the lab doing some tests,” John added, quick to change the subject, “but are you sure the Yard doesn’t have anything on this place?”

 

“Maybe just on very minor incidents in the area.” Greg thought for a bit. “Actually, I think I have a friend who works there...”

 

“Really? Would they be open to some questioning?” John asked hopefully.

 

“Yeah, he’s one of the bartenders there. I can call him up and tell him you’ll be coming in.” Greg scrolled through his contacts on his phone.

 

“Thanks, Greg. Vergeisn’t open tonight, but I’ll text Sherlock and tell him about it.” He pulled out his phone, tapping out a few quick words to inform him of Greg’s friend at Verge.

 

They exchanged a few texts, until John received: **_< < Might have found something. Come to Bart’s ASAP. >>_**

 

John hailed a cab as quickly as he could, thanking Greg and promising to update him after they had met with his friend. He noticed that it had gotten dark outside already, even though it was only half-past four in the afternoon.

 

What had Sherlock found that he couldn’t even hint at over the phone? Drugs in the blood sample? Alcohol? Was the blood sample even Shaun’s? It could have been anyone’s, couldn’t it? Especially if Sherlock had just found it in the alley...It could have been there for months...and God knows who came and went. It wasn’t the type of exclusive club to keep a neat list of guests who had been there each night, and they might have an extremely hard time trying to track any patrons down...and so the evidence could be a dead end, even. But whatever he had just discovered must have been important, otherwise, surely, a simple text would have sufficed.

 

John paid the cabbie and ran up the stairs as quickly as possible, briskly walking through the corridors (muttering apologies to any employees he bumped into) and finding the usual lab easily. He burst through the door.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathed out, like a sigh of relief. He was hunched over a computer, his microscope and glass slides beside him. He was clutching his phone as if he’d been about to text John.

 

“You, you found something?” John asked, out of breath. He closed the door and walked over.

 

“I remembered we didn’t have a sample of Shaun’s blood, so I cross-checked the sample I took from the alley with the DNA database...” Sherlock ran his hand through his dark curls- a sure sign of anxiety, uncertainty, concern.

 

“And...?” John prodded, his heart suddenly dropping into his stomach from the look on Sherlock’s face- more apprehension; dread, even.

 

Sherlock turned the computer screen slowly towards John, looking up to see his reaction.

 

 

 _WATSON, JOHN_ , the letters flashed across the screen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ominous music*


End file.
